


Partners In Crime

by Kachelofen



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kachelofen/pseuds/Kachelofen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, set in S3. Brian and Justin have yet to meet. Brian is pretty much in the familiar situation, working for Vangard and Stockwell. Most canon events are the same up to that point, with the obvious exception of those which involve Justin. One or two events in S3 may be a little out of sync. Also: some things about Justin may seem a bit strange. Just go with the flow for now. :-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mainly Brian’s POV with the odd sprinkling of Justin.
> 
>  
> 
> I was trying out a new style and would class this as hokum. I hope you’ll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always the story is already complete.

 

**PART  ONE**

The room is buzzing with quiet conversations. Occasionally someone laughs and it jars my nerves, which are already somewhat frayed. Here I am with a unique opportunity to network the most influential people in town, but _boy!_ are they provincial and all the more pretentious for that. It should be no different from all the other potential clients I court on a daily basis – all I’m ever interested in is people’s money anyway – but somehow this is much harder. I’ve been schmoozing them for hours – it feels more like days – and I can always pull it off, but why am I not more buzzed about this? This is just one step removed from achieving my life-long ambition. I shouldn’t hate it so much.

At the moment, I’m cursing all the way to the restroom, albeit only in my head and it doesn’t even have anything to do with the guests. I would have thought that at a five-star hotel and at five thousand dollars a ticket, they could afford to employ waiters who don’t drop canapés on my clothes. Luckily, there‘s just a small drop of mayonnaise on my shirt, but I don’t like the idea of smelling of egg for the rest of the night, so I’d better wash it out.

I weave my way through the crowd of overdressed idiots, smiling with fake sincerity at the people I know and suppress a groan when a look at the ornate wall clock makes me realize we’re only halfway through the evening. At least now there’s no need to go to Babylon afterwards because the waiter made it quite clear how much he’d like to compensate me for the mishap at his earliest opportunity. I’ve been so busy recently that any and all timesaving measures are welcome.

The whole evening would be so much more bearable if Vance hadn’t decided that Vangard needs to be represented by both partners at this fundraiser for his favorite client. Rather than rejoicing at the fact that he takes the most obnoxious people off my hands so I can concentrate on the really important ones, his inane side remarks for my ears only make me want to gouge my eyes out. How did I end up with this guy as a senior partner? Come back, Marty, all’s forgiven.

In a weird sense, Jim Stockwell isn’t just Vance’s favorite client. I can’t stand the smarmy guy or any of his cronies, but if I can get him elected through the campaign I’ve devised, Stockwell has promised Vangard his sponsor list. And I’m determined to become head of the New York office, which Vangard will be able to open if just half the people on that list decide to sign with us. Which, as a side effect, would also remove me from Vance’s scrutiny and his tedious chatter. Does that guy ever shut up?

The election campaign is going well. Stockwell, who was trailing behind, is rising steadily in the polls. There are still some weeks left to go and I have some brilliant ideas, so I’ve no doubt that we’ll succeed. I can’t wait. Never mind enjoying the fruits of success, I’m also looking forward to not having to deal with the pompous ass and his snobby assistants any longer.

Running a political campaign is very different from running an ordinary advertising campaign. There’s a lot more hand-holding involved because, from the self-important man at the top down to the tiniest cog in the party headquarter machine, everyone thinks that I have nothing better to do and no other clients to attend to. I’m expected to be available 24/7. Vance would be so much better suited to this kind of toadyism, but Stockwell is astute enough to realize that I’m the one giving him a shot at becoming mayor, not Vance. Which is good news in one way – the me-personally-reaping-the-rewards way – and bad news in another – mainly having to actually put up with these people.

I’m under no illusion that Stockwell and his team don’t despise me from the bottom of their little homophobic hearts, but they need me and they’ve finally come to realize it – after firing me for a mere two days when they found out I’m gay. I just hate the fact that I need them, too. But I finally have the chance to get out of Pittsburgh and I’m determined to seize it with both hands and consequences be damned. It’s business. I have no problem with that. My problem is more about how much I loathe these people. It’s very taxing.

The restroom is large, with a multitude of lights and mirrors. If it were possible, the diffuse lighting makes me look even hotter than normal. I take off my suit jacket and tie – both of them thankfully mayonnaise-free – and unbutton my shirt. The stain is small and could easily be covered by the tie. It’s the smell that bothers me more than the size. I don’t even like the stuff.

I inspect myself in the tinted mirror for a moment, then decide that it’ll be easier to limit the water stain if I take the shirt off altogether. There’s no one in the room and all the toilet cubicles are empty with the doors slightly ajar. But even if someone does turn up, another look at my chest – which bears witness to the hours I spend in the gym and on the tanning bed – confirms that I can expect admiration or envy rather than scorn even here at Breeder Central.

As if to test my theory, the door opens as I’m just wiping the stain – after dabbing some surprisingly pleasant smelling soap on it – with some tissue paper I’ve run under the hot water. In the mirror, I can see you stop in the doorway. You run your eyes over my body, then smirk and let the door fall shut.

I know that look. No straight man would ever linger that long on my naked skin, never mind smile that way to himself. I look you over. Nice expensive suit, worn with a comfortable air. Blond hair, slightly shaggy, just down to the collar of your pristine white shirt. A little on the short side but so are most people compared to me. Good body, well-proportioned and slim. Unfortunately your package is covered by the suit jacket, but I have no doubt I’ll get a better look soon enough.

We grin at each other in the mirror. Then you move closer and lean your hip against the sink next to me. “Have I come to the wrong type of establishment by mistake?” Your voice trembles with amusement. Your smile is broad and inviting, while your eyes are starting to get that expression of obvious lust that I always engender.

“No, but I think _I_ may have,” I grin. “What is this? Bring your kid to the nice politician’s fundraiser day?”

Your broad smile never falters. “Hey, I’ll have you know that I’m twenty-three.”

“Really?” I dab my shirt with a dry paper towel and put it back on without buttoning it yet. Under the circumstances it would be a waste of time. Then I turn to face you properly. “So, you’re legal?” You look like a teenager, even though your suit and the fact that you’re at this very expensive event are enough to refute that impression.

“Very.” Blue eyes travel up and down my body and your tongue peeks out to wet full lips.

I usually like my tricks more muscular and a little taller – and looking their age – but I’m happy to make exceptions when the other guy’s this hot, in a twinkie kind of way, and so obviously willing. I run a finger down your chest to just below your navel and it makes you shiver a little. Then I pull you closer by placing my hand around the back of your neck and kiss you.

You obviously have some experience because you’re a great kisser. I don’t mind guys who aren’t but appreciate the ones who are. I walk backwards, pulling you by your tie until I hit one of the stalls. Getting caught at this by the kind of sponsors Stockwell attracts is really not such a good idea, so I drag you inside the cubicle and lock the door.

Then I forget all about where I am under the onslaught of eager hands and a very talented mouth. You linger at my nipples longer than I’m used to but under the circumstances I just lean back and enjoy it. Then you slowly run your tongue down my stomach and along the trail of hair leading to my cock. I’m fully hard before you even get there.

While a blowjob is always welcome, there are blowjobs and there are _blowjobs_. With my long experience I can tell very quickly when things aren’t likely to turn out great and I don’t really like to think about the fact that occasionally I actually get bored. Usually, I just pull the other guy to his feet and fuck him because that gives me more control over my own pleasure. But I have no intention of stopping _this_ any time soon. This… is something else.

I groan when you pull your mouth off my dick and get up. But then we’re kissing again and you pull your pants down and pass me a condom and some lube. Okay, so some guys don’t like giving head when there’s no guarantee of a pay-off for themselves. I can relate to that, although I rarely suck cock nowadays, as I mainly fuck in the backroom. No way will I ever get on my knees for anyone.

I turn you around while I’m preparing myself. It’s hard to shift the feeling that I should prepare you very carefully but that’s just because you look so damned young. When I start pushing in, there’s a quick jerk of your hips, which makes me sink in almost to my balls. _Nice_. Guided by the little noises my fucking elicits from you, I find a rhythm and I’m struck by how well we fit together. That’s not always the case or even very often. Just the luck of the draw. Some fucks are better than others.

When I come, pressed against your back, one hand cramped around the top of the stall partition for leverage, I don’t even try to suppress my moan. It wouldn’t make any difference anyway, because you’re rather loud, too.

For long moments, we just stand close to each other, trying to level out our breathing, basking in the afterglow of our respective orgasms. Then I pull out gently and dispose of the condom in the toilet.

“That was great,” you say, leaning against the partition and watching me wipe myself with tissue paper, and sporting that broad smile that you have.

“Obviously,” I mutter in a bored voice, but in my head I have to admit that it’s true. Maybe it’s just the idea of doing it here, amidst these people who’d have an apoplectic fit if they knew. I grin at the thought of it but listen carefully for anybody in the restroom before I leave the stall. We’re still alone. Which is just as well, not just for the fact that getting caught would probably mean getting fired again but also because my suit jacket and tie are still hanging up next to the hand dryer.

By the time you come out of the stall after cleaning yourself up, I’m already adjusting my tie and checking that I’m generally presentable.

“I’m Justin, by the way.” You smile at me while washing your hands.

I stare at you in the mirror and finally smile sardonically. “Really? How nice for you.”

You don’t seem perturbed in any way, just nod. “Ah, you’re one of those. Fair enough.” You’re just finishing cleaning your hands and walk towards the door, still drying them with a paper towel. “Thanks for making my evening a little less tedious.”

“What do you mean, ‘ _a little_ ’?” I ask in mock consternation.

You turn around and we grin at each other in genuine mirth. “All right. _A lot_ less tedious. Later.” Neatly lobbing the balled-up paper towel into the trash, you slip out of the room.

I adjust my tie one last time and take a deep breath before I rejoin the freak show that is Jim Stockwell’s election fundraiser.

 

 

On Monday, Cynthia can barely suppress her anger when she informs me that Claudia Warner will be arriving at a quarter to nine. The woman doesn’t have an appointment, naturally, but being one of Stockwell’s campaign managers, she doesn’t need one. Luckily, I’ve come in early, as I have every day since Vangard has taken on Stockwell as a client. There’s always something or other that needs to be done for the campaign without delay or prior notice. I usually try to get my other work out of the way as much as I can beforehand.

“Do we have coffee?” I ask in a long-suffering voice.

Cynthia smiles a sympathetic smile. “I’ll get Tim to go to Starbucks. What do you want me to do about the witch?”

“Send her in when she arrives and postpone the finance meeting until she’s gone. Hopefully she won’t have hundreds of requests that I have to attend to before the meeting.”

“Yeah, like that’s likely,” Cynthia mutters darkly before leaving the room.

For twenty blissful minutes, I can concentrate on my other accounts without interruptions. I’m good at shutting out distractions and not worrying about things until it’s the proper time to worry about them. I’ll attend to _Ms_ Warner when she arrives and to finances when the accountants sit in front of my desk. Until then, Potter Leisure Wear has my undivided attention.

I’m in luck that my coffee arrives with five minutes to spare and by that time I’ve already had a fruitful telephone conversation with Henry Potter. Since we’ve progressed to first name terms, I have to suppress the unfortunate urge to call the man ‘Harry’, like Cynthia is wont to do, although she’s too professional to do it to his face, even accidentally.

Ms Warner arrives with the usual flourish, meaning that all the advance warning I have is hearing her slightly nasal voice bidding Cynthia a curt good morning. I sigh and smile at the woman when she invades my office, nodding to Cynthia, who only has time to follow her to my office door so she can shut it.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” I keep my annoyance and any sarcasm out of my voice as much as I can. It’s not easy.

“The fundraiser went well.”

Of course, it did – I helped organize it. Although with the people who attended, there was never any doubt that it would go well. Every single person there almost smelled of money and all of them were only too keen to give it to what they consider a worthy cause.

“In fact, we’ve been approached by a sponsor who’s willing to donate a rather large sum of money to the campaign.”

“Oh?” I’m not really very interested in the monetary aspect of the campaign, apart from the money Vangard will get paid at the end of it and my subsequent bonus. Nor does anybody in the Stockwell camp usually discuss this with me.

“We made a decision to accept the money and the condition attached to it.”

I immediately know without the shadow of a doubt that I won’t like this condition – at all. For a moment, I worry that they’ll take the PR aspect off me altogether, but in that case Ms Warner wouldn’t be paying me a personal visit. A simple phone call would terminate Vangard’s contract. No, this is a courtesy call to sweeten me up, probably forced on Ms Warner by Stockwell himself.

I lean back in my chair, cross my legs and look at her with a diffident smile. “Well, let’s hear it.”

“Our sponsor wishes to stay anonymous to the public eye, but I can tell you that it’s one Ethan Gold. He’s the son of Nathaniel Goldstein.” She looks at me expectantly with barely suppressed glee.

“I know who he is.” Billionaire recluse, philanthropist – I don’t feel the need to prove my knowledge to her. “Since when does he involve himself in politics?”

“He doesn’t. His son takes care of all his financial affairs, at least in public. Or rather, he has an agent who takes care of it. Mr. Gold is just the official face of it. All the contacts and all the work’s done by a Mr. Tramayne. He was the one at the fundraiser last night. And he’s the one who approached us.”

“Okay. So Nathanial Goldstein wants to give you a bunch of money. He sends his son to do it but sonnyboy’s too lazy to do it himself, so he sends an agent. Where does Vangard come in?”

“Mr. Tramayne owns a graphics design business. Mr. Gold wants us to use him for the campaign.”

I try to remain calm. So they’re firing me after all? Even Stockwell couldn’t be that stupid. “I understand that the donation will be very welcome, but what good will it do you if you lose the election because of it? You can’t win without me.”

“I beg to differ.”

I shrug and just look at her silently. I’ve been fired before and I try to calculate if there’s still enough time for the campaign to slump and for me to then get re-hired once more before the election. And crucially, will I be able to save them if they leave it too long?

But Ms Warner isn’t finished. “Unfortunately, Jim agrees with you. So he’d like you to just use this guy as your art department. You’ll retain full control over the work and you’ll get all the credit, except obviously for the actual artwork.”

“We don’t work with outsiders. I know our art department and what is more, they know me. They can transform my ideas. And Vangard only hires the best. I don’t even know if this Tramayne guy’s any good. What’s his company called?”

“Uhm… _Tramaphics_?”

“Never heard of them. Which isn’t a good sign.” That isn’t quite the truth. With Vangard having its own art department, I’ve never had any reason to look at graphic design companies. They could be very well-known and I wouldn’t necessarily know about them. But I really don’t want to share the credit with anyone.

“Well, this is what Jim wants. I’ve asked Mr. Tramayne to come in to see you this afternoon. I’m just here as a courtesy. And I can guarantee you that if you can’t work with him, you’ll be the one left out in the cold.”

“Wow. He must be donating quite a bundle if you’re willing to risk the election on it.”

“You’re overestimating your importance, Mr. Kinney.” She gets up and smoothes her skirt down. The only thing I like about her is her open animosity towards me. At least she’s honest, unlike most of the others in her camp, including Stockwell himself.

“Not if winning the election is of any importance to you,” I say with a false smile. What I would hate the most is for Stockwell to win the election without me. I don’t think it’s likely, but you can never overestimate the stupidity of the American voter. In fact, I’m relying heavily on it to succeed.

“We’ll win either way,” she says and gives me an equally false smile. “It’s your decision. Make this work or face the consequences. Good day, Mr. Kinney.”

I know that Stockwell wouldn’t be quite as happy as she would be if I quit, but the fact remains that without Stockwell, there’ll be no New York. I have to remind myself of that frequently when dealing with these people.

“Wow. That was quick and painless,” Cynthia quips, after Ms Warner has swept out of the office mere minutes after her arrival.

“Oh, it was _very_ painful, believe me.” I fill her in on the newest developments and let her vent her anger as my proxy. It’s always fun to listen to her when she’s riled up. Then I ask her for another coffee and to call the finance meeting. Maybe work will distract me enough not to scream out my frustration. There’s got to be a better way to get to New York, but after having failed with Kennedy  & Collins even hot on the heels of winning a Clio award, I really don’t know how.

 

 

After a two hour lunch, I arrive back at the office invigorated and mellow at the same time. Two fucks at the baths during my break have taken care of my frustration but also left me pleasantly tired. I needed the distraction after the morning I’ve had. My meeting with Ms Warner was followed by two hours sequestered with two accountants and Vance and another hour where Vance speculated how this new development with Stockwell would impact on Vangard, with very little input from me. We’re both aware that with the artwork being outsourced, our only claim to the eventual success will be the ideas behind the campaign. Good for me as the brains behind it, not so good for the agency as a whole.

As I walk past, I pick up the coffee which is waiting for me perched on the corner of Cynthia’s desk. “Any messages?” I half-expect Stockwell’s team to have come up with some new surprises while I’ve been away.

She nods towards the visitors’ chairs. “Mr. Tramayne’s arrived.”

I turn and nearly drop my coffee when I come face to face with you, grinning widely at me.

“What the fuck,” I mutter to myself, for a moment too surprised not to react. Then I chuckle. “ _You’re_ Tramayne?”

You get up and come closer. “I am indeed. Justin Tramayne. Nice to see you again, Mr. Kinney.”

Perceiving the situation perfectly, Cynthia rolls her eyes. I shake my head, still chuckling, and make an inviting gesture toward my office. Smiling broadly, you sashay past me, your perfect butt filling out your designer jeans nicely and I can’t help tilting my head a little, appreciating the view.

“Hold my calls as much as feasible.”

“Will do. Is he as good as he looks?” Cynthia’s lowered her voice to just above a whisper.

I shrug with feigned indifference. “He was adequate.” I never praise my tricks to anyone. It would give the impression that the quality of my sex life depends on how good the tricks are. It doesn’t. Whomever I’m with, always has a great fuck, and so do I.

“Is it going to be a problem?”

“Doubt it. If he wants to work with Stockwell, he’ll keep very quiet.”

When I enter the office, you’re standing in contemplation of the painting behind the desk.

“Have a seat, Mr. Tramayne.” I deposit my coffee on the desk, noticing for the first time that you’re holding a cup of your own, and sit down.

You do the same in the chair in front of my desk, slightly slumped and with your hands folded around your coffee on your stomach. “You’re not going to insist on calling me Mr. Tramayne after you had your dick up my ass, are you?”

I smile and concede the point. “So you found out my name after all.”

“I already knew it at the fundraiser. I make it my business to do my homework. You’re Brian Kinney, thirty-one, father of one, Vangard’s junior partner since last year. You’ve been working on the Stockwell campaign for around two months.”

I purse my lips, amused. “Should I get out a restraining order?”

“Hardly. I googled you, mostly. I knew I’d be working with you, so I found out what I could. Didn’t you do the same? Or did you only just find out that you’re working with me?” There’s a slight pause. “You _do_ know that we’ll be working together, don’t you?”

I smile. “We will _not_ be working together. _You_ will be working for _me._ ”

You nod once in an exaggerated fashion. “I see. I think I have to apologize for insisting on doing the artwork for the campaign. Ethan’s a good friend of mine and he’s doing me a favor. I’m just trying to make a name for myself. _Tramaphics_ has only been in business for a year. But I can assure you, I’m up to the task.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“I was on Saturday night, wasn’t I?” The broad smile reappears and I find myself smiling back almost against my will.

“I’m a little more discerning with my work than I am with my tricks.”

You smile a little wider. “I find that it pays to be discerning in every aspect of your life.”

Your eyebrows come up, indicating that I fall into that category and I’m annoyed with myself for feeling flattered. Getting praise from my tricks is par for the course, pleasing but unimportant and ultimately no more than my due.

“Show me some of your stuff.” When you smile suggestively again, I glare at you. At this rate, we’ll never get any work done, especially since I can already feel my dick stir at the memory of the fundraiser. “Your _graphics_ stuff.”

You have an extensive resume, a degree from Dartmouth and the _Tramaphics_ website is impressive even by my standards. Although I’ve never heard of the obviously very small companies you’ve done work for, the work itself is outstanding and wide-ranging, including videos, animation and stills. You’re obviously very talented in more than one area. You’re also indeed twenty-three years old, a fact I would be inclined to dispute even more in the bright light of the office. Your looks make me aware that I’ve passed thirty nearly two years ago, which I didn’t really need reminding of.

However, I’m pleased by your obvious deference to my expertise. You show your work with the air of a student trying to impress his teacher and glow with pride when I make some positive remarks. At no point do you suggest that you’d like some input into the work you’re expected to do, beyond artistic considerations. If you’re really as good as your samples suggest, this collaboration may actually work out because I’m not going to relinquish any aspect of my ideas but don’t really care who carries them out as long as the execution is up to my standards.

I really hope that you’ll prove to be an asset because I find myself enjoying our conversation. It’s different from working with the in-house staff, who never lose sight of the fact that I have the power to supply them with a promotion or a pink slip according to their work. You’re just full of enthusiasm and admiration for my work, which you know rather well. I try not to be too flattered.

This is shaping up to be a pleasant surprise. We quickly establish a relationship of mentor and protégé and while you have your own ideas and question me when you disagree, in the long run you acquiesce to everything. I can work with that.

After three hours, Cynthia reminds me of the conference call I have scheduled in another fifteen minutes and you power down your laptop and store it in your messenger bag. “So you’ll contact me when you want me to start?”

“Yeah, we’ll probably get going next week. The campaign’s really heating up now.”

“Great. What do you do for fun around here?”

I can’t help but raise my eyebrows suggestively and you laugh. “Besides that.”

“There’s Woody’s on Liberty Avenue. Nice atmosphere and lots of willing men. Babylon’s the club to be. But there are others if your tastes are more specific, like Meathook and Boytoy. Stay away from Poppers.”

“Okay. Thanks. I might check some of those out. Later.” You raise your hand in goodbye and leave the room.

I like people who know when it’s time to go and don’t draw it out unnecessarily. Then I pull out the file to prepare for my conference. Ten minutes ought to do it. I push you from my mind.

 

 

 

Woody’s is exactly the same as it always is. I take a look around with studied nonchalance, marking two guys as ‘possible’ and then make my way over to the bar. Josh, the bartender, smiles invitingly and sets a bottle of beer on the counter for me without being asked. He’s obviously still hoping that I’ll fuck him one day, but the way I look at it, he’ll always be here, whereas some of the patrons may not. So, while I’m considering it, there’s always someone here who needs my attention more urgently. Still, a bit of mild flirting gets me preferential treatment.

When I turn around, my elbows on the counter to study the scene, I see a familiar yet somewhat unexpected face. You’re making your way from the door straight towards me, your trademark smile wide on your face.

“Fancy meeting you here,” you say happily.

“The ubiquitous Justin Tramayne,” I drawl, no longer as bored as I sound. There’s something about your bounciness that makes me want to smile whenever I see you. It amuses me and I wonder if there’s anything that could quash it. Although that would be a shame.

“Well, you said this is a good place to come.”

“Quite.” I raise my eyebrows once at the double entendre.

You chuckle. “Didn’t really mean it like that, but is it?”

“Depends on what you’re looking for.” I take another look around. “I can give you the low-down on most of these guys.”

“Really? Impressive.” You look around as well, then point to one of the tables, suggesting that it’ll be less conspicuous to talk about people away from the bar. I don’t mind. I’m waiting for Michael anyway, and you’re good company.

We spend a good half an hour and another bottle of beer on discussing the other patrons. You laugh heartily at my assessments of their performances and we naturally drift to sexual encounters in general – the amusing and the terrible.

“So, let’s narrow it down. Of the ones you recommended, which one have you done the most?”

“I don’t usually do repeats.” It’s just a habit. I don’t have a hard and fast rule about that. I’ve fucked some guys more than once although never more than twice and even that rarely. I usually get bored after the first time. There’s no challenge once I’ve had a guy.

“Oh. That’s disappointing.” You smile at me seductively.

I already feel my dick starting to pay attention at the thought of fucking you again. We will work together for another three months, so having you as a ready-made fuck source may come in handy with the workload I’m anticipating. On the other hand, it might lead to complications I’d much rather avoid, but either way, I can’t help teasing.

“Why? Were you hoping for an encore?”

“I wouldn’t mind it.” Your smile widens. “But since I have to abide by your rules at work, I can do it outside the office as well.”

I watch you shift your attention to the guys around us and feel a small stab of consternation that you give up so easily. I’m not used to guys being more or less indifferent. Usually I have to fight them off. I’m brought out of my reverie when Michael slips into the seat next to me.

“You’re late.” I kiss him on the lips, feeling cold skin. “Wow, you’re freezing. How long have you been out?”

“I was looking for Hunter for two hours. The little shit’s driving me nuts.”

“Well, if you insist on doing your charity bit, you’ll have to put up with standing at street corners at night. He _is_ a hustler after all.” I’m still unclear what the attraction is of taking in a street kid. I suspect that Ben’s hankering after a child, especially now that Michael's going to have one of his own. But who knows what goes on in the professor’s mind? Mostly boring shit, no doubt.

Michael nods, eyeing you with suspicion. Then he looks back at me. “Listen, if you’re tricking anyway, I might as well go home. I want something to eat and most of all, I want to be warm.”

“Curling up with hubby under a blanket in front of the TV?” I sneer more sarcastically than intended. Ever since Michael moved in with Ben, things haven’t been the same. It’s worse than it was with David, because Ben suits Michael much better. And the fact that he doesn’t even try to compete with me for Michael's attention makes him very hard to beat.

Michael sighs.

“This is Justin,” I say to keep the peace. “He works with me. Justin, this is Michael.”

You give Michael a friendly smile as a hello and Michael returns it tiredly. But at least, he’s appeased and enters into a conversation with you when you start asking a lot of questions. Your talk soon turns to comic books and you’re enthusing about mangas and animes, which you claim as one of your interests. You say your ultimate goal is to be an animator. I’m surprised how much less geeky than Mikey you seem while professing the same interests.

I lose track of the conversation after a while – who or what the fuck is Square Enix anyway? – and amuse myself by appraising the two guys I marked as possible tricks. But I’m not interested enough to make a move or even just to encourage them to make their move. I return to my companions again and again, not really listening, just watching you and your habit of gesticulating when you get animated.

I still think that you look a lot younger than you are. Your blue eyes sparkle with enthusiasm or maybe it’s your slightly shaggy blond hair that gives the youthful impression. On the other hand, twenty-three isn’t too far removed from being teenager anyway. It’s just that I know that I was never that young. Never mind that I’ve always looked older than I was at that age, I’ve also never been that carefree. At no point in my life have I not been driven.

When you excuse yourself to go to the men’s room – for its intended purpose, I have no doubt – Michael turns to me. “Nice guy.”

“Yeah. Not all the people I work with are stuffy old geezers.”

“Don’t fuck him.”

I bark out a laugh. “What the fuck?”

“Don’t fuck him. I can see the way you look at him. Just remember Kip Thomas. And Justin’s a nice guy. He’s probably looking for a boyfriend. Just leave this one out, for both your sakes.”

“Don’t tell me who to fuck, Mikey. And anyway, I already had him.”

Michael groans. “When will you ever learn?”

I think that’s a little unfair under the circumstances and fill him in on what happened. Michael listens in silence.

“So when you fucked, he already knew who you are?”

“Looks like it.”

“Maybe I got him all wrong then. But still, it’ll only lead to trouble if you do it again. Be careful.”

I pull him closer and kiss his temple. “Awww, Mikey, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Yeah, you did.” Michael pushes me off with a friendly shove and gets up. “I have to go home. Early delivery tomorrow.”

“Right.” It’s always the same nowadays. Michael’s so wrapped up in work and his domestic situation that he rarely manages to spend much time with me. And with me being so busy myself, we’re mostly reduced to phone calls. “Say hello to the professor for me and the littlest hustler.”

“Yeah, if the little shit hasn’t sneaked out again.”

“You should really keep a better eye on Ben,” I quip, willfully misinterpreting his remark.

Michael laughs and kisses me goodbye. On the way to the door, he runs into you and exchanges a few remarks. It’s got to be the first time that Michael actually likes someone that I associate with. In the past, he’s always been either vitriolic or brooding. Ben is obviously a good influence on him. I try to ignore the little pang I feel at the lack of jealousy on Michael’s part this implies. That’s just stupid. Michael getting over his crush is a good thing. It _is_.

“Do you wanna go to Babylon?” I ask you when you return to the table. I need to let off steam.

“Sure, why not?”

In the old days, I only ever went to Babylon later on in the evening when it was so busy I had to squeeze through the crowds. But those were the days before Michael decided to settle down and Ted had not yet reached incredible heights with his porn site, only to fall just as low not long after, when he got arrested. I still cringe when I think about Emmett’s diva-worthy appeal to my better nature and even more when I think about Ted’s thank you afterwards. At least, Emmett chose to embarrass me in private.

So nowadays Michael spends most evenings in domestic bliss and Emmett spends them giving support to an increasingly depressed and pathetic Ted. And I’m reduced to spending them on my own. Gone are leisurely games of pool at Woody’s or conversations at the diner before moving on to the main event of the evening. Now I occasionally find myself at Babylon with the early crowd of losers and trolls out of sheer boredom, but mostly I simply stay at the loft until it’s late enough to make an entrance.

Of course, with the other patrons being so pathetic, my entrance causes twice the stir it would later on. Or make that three times, because you manage to draw quite a few eyes all on your own. So tonight it’s all right. I can dance with you and not look like a loser and even when the better clientele arrives, we pretty much stick with each other.

You’re a good dancer and easily one of the best looking guys around. You’re not smoking hot like I am, of course, more like beautiful in a very traditional sense, which makes you hot in your own way. And you seem totally unaware of it. At least, you ignore the looks people are giving you for the most part. We end up touching from about the second or third song onwards, when you put your hands on my hips and I respond by resting my arms on your shoulders. It has the effect that nobody else approaches either one of us.

In between, we stand at the bar and critique the men, the drinks and the music. I realize that I missed this more than I’ve wanted to admit. Someone to talk to when I’m not dancing or fucking, someone to prowl with, someone who comments on what I’m doing. It’s fun.

As the evening wears on and we both get drunker – and hornier, as evidenced by our hard cocks rubbing against each other during our dancing – I begin to wonder when you’ll stop this and move on to what we’ve really come here for. I’m willing to wait and choose my own trick then, because I enjoy having company too much and I can always fuck later. I also want to see you in the backroom.

Finally, one of the guys around us makes his move. I remember him from some months ago and his blowjobs are really something, although not quite on par with yours. The guy dances close to you, rubbing against you from behind despite my presence until you turn to look at him and give him a short smile. Then you turn back to me, pulling me closer and down a bit by my neck so you can speak in my ear. “If you don’t want me, I’ll take this guy home with me.”

I’m a little perturbed by the idea that you’ll leave instead of going to the backroom as I expected you to do. But I’m also a little annoyed at the challenge. Why should I care if you take the guy home?

“Are you giving me an ultimatum?” My voice and expression make it quite clear what I think of that idea.

“Brian.” You stroke the hair at the nape of my neck a little and I want to pull away, but I also want to hear what you have to say. “I want to fuck. I want _you_ to fuck me. Preferably all night. I want to feel your cock inside me and I want you to make me scream like I know you can. But if you don’t want to for whatever reason, I’ll take this guy. It’s not an _ultimatum_ , it’s an _offer_. No strings attached.”

We both draw back a little so we can look at each other better and I can barely breathe, I’m so turned on. I frown a little and then you pull my head down one more time and kiss me. I can’t help but respond. You really are an amazing kisser. It seems to go on forever and by the time you let go of me and move away to turn to your trick, I’m nearly shaking with lust. I grab your shirt and yank you back against my chest.

“You’re coming home with me.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

**PART  TWO**

I wake up with a boner, as I do most mornings, but I need to go to the toilet so urgently that I can’t do anything about it right away, despite having my bed full of willing ass for once. I stumble into the bathroom, trying desperately to think of something off-putting so my cock will get soft enough to piss properly. When I finally manage it, I look back at my bed, where I can see you just stirring. Your pale skin is invitingly displayed, with the sheets slipping almost completely off your body as you stretch.

Ever since I had a break-in two years ago, I don’t really let tricks stay over anymore. Occasionally it happens, when I’m too drunk or too drugged out to make them leave after the fuck, but I’m more careful nowadays. I don’t want to give anyone the chance to case the joint while I’m asleep. On the other hand, you aren’t quite a stranger, so it’s all right. Then again, the fact that you aren’t a nameless trick brings its own set of problems. I stopped fucking people at work after I was sued for sexual harassment by Kip Thomas a couple of years ago. Luckily, a private detective Melanie recommended dug up some dirt on Thomas, mainly the fact that he‘d tried a similar scam before. Everything was quickly resolved after that.

And you aren’t exactly working for me. You’re your own agent and your job doesn’t depend on my goodwill. It would be difficult to construe this as sexual harassment in any way. Besides, you seem so open and simply attracted to me that I think an altogether different scenario is more likely. I decide to have a shower instead of going back to bed.

If I was trying to send you a message, you obviously didn’t receive it because I’ve barely washed my hair when the shower door opens and I feel a naked body pressed against my back. My hard-on pops back up with annoying predictability, but then you take care of that and I think that clearing the air can wait just a little while longer.

Twenty minutes later, I’m pondering what to wear with my designer jeans but get distracted by you opening and closing every single cupboard door in my kitchen. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Looking for food. Man cannot live on protein alone. At least this man can’t.” You open the refrigerator, surveying its contents, such as it is. “All you have in here’s water, poppers and guava juice. Don’t you eat?”

I grab one of my charcoal sweaters at random and pull it over my head while I make my way to the kitchen counter. Normally, this is the point – way past the point, actually – when I say ‘fuck off’ in no uncertain terms. But I still have to work with you and I kind of like you, so I try to be diplomatic.

“I don’t know what you think this is, but I don’t supply breakfast. Don’t get comfortable because I ain’t looking for no boyfriend.” Okay, so diplomatic is an exaggeration. I’m more concerned with being absolutely clear.

You stand up from peering in the bottom drawer of the fridge and turn to look at me. Your face has the same expression it had last night when you said that I misunderstood you, a mixture of sickening tenderness and self-righteous consternation. “It’s just breakfast, Brian. It’s what normal people do when they wake up. Well, right after the sex, that is. And I’m not looking for a boyfriend either. I’ve already got one of those.”

“You have a boyfriend?” Surprise makes me blurt it out before I can stop myself. Then I curse in my head. I don’t want to give the impression that I’m disappointed about that or even care. I don’t. Why would I?

“Yes. I’ve been with Ethan for a while now.”

“Ethan Gold? No wonder he’s so keen to further your career.”

“Hey, I resent that.” But you sound merely amused.

“No skin off my nose,” I say truthfully. “You do what you have to do.”

“Yeah, luckily I don’t. Ethan and I got together before he was ever in a position to help me out. And anyway, I’d make it without his help, too.”

I can well believe that. Your work, from what I’ve seen, is amazing and you have the necessary drive to succeed. So I don’t mention that Ethan has always been a rich man’s son, even when he was still young. You don’t seem like a gold digger to me and even if you are, why should I care?

“So where’s the nearest café? Because I live on the other side of town and I’m gonna pass out from hunger on the bus before I get there.”

“I usually go to the diner on Liberty. The food’s adequate and I meet up with my friends there.”

“Right, I think I can make it that far.” You walk over to the couch and pick up your pea coat and stripy scarf. Together, especially when you wrap yourself up to the tip of your nose as you’re doing now, they make you look like a kid. It’s really not fair. I resent having to shell out hundreds of dollars for that French anti-aging shit while guys like you don’t seem to age at all.

“Are you coming with me or will you continue to starve yourself? Personally, I’d vote for putting a couple more ounces on you, but to each his own. It makes you look rather fetching in that sweater.”

I have to chuckle at the mixture of insult and flattery, but I suspect that neither was intended. You just talk a lot without giving much heed to what you’re saying. It would probably be prudent to stay here and maybe go to the Starbucks on the way to the gym. It would cement my position on what this is – or isn’t – but I feel myself drawn to some diner food and conversation.

“I’ll just get ready.”

 

 

 

“Anyway, I can assure you, you really don’t need to compensate for anything,” you’re saying as we enter the diner. You laughed at my Corvette as soon as you saw it and then spent the whole journey talking about the subconscious reasons why some guys feel the need to drive a ‘penis extension’.

I love my car and I only had it for a month – courtesy of the GLC – so I’m annoyed at first but can’t help laughing at the lecture. You have a way of blending harsh judgments with mischief and glee that is irresistible. You also don’t fail to point out how much I _don’t_ fit into the category of sad old geezers you’re describing.

“It’s a cool car,” I say with finality.

“Yeah, it is,” you concede amiably. Looking around the nearly deserted diner, you slip into a booth, unwinding your scarf and taking off your coat. “So what would you recommend?”

We discuss the menu for a little while. There isn’t actually anything on there that I’d outright recommend, but it’s edible and the really fat-laden stuff isn’t suitable for breakfast anyway. I look up every time someone enters the diner, but it’s more from habit. I don’t expect any of the gang to turn up.  They got out of that habit some time ago. I notice Carl coming in though, who’s just about the only cop I don’t hate seeing on Liberty Avenue. There are altogether too many of them about at the moment. Carl looks around the almost empty place and makes a beeline for me.

“Hi, Kinney. Is Debbie working today?”

I shrug. “Don’t know. Haven’t seen her yet. You’re the detective, investigate.” I heard from Michael that Debbie and Carl are having problems. While Michael seems happy about that, I’m firmly on the fence on the subject. To me Debbie looked happy while she was with Carl and that’s my only judgment criteria for the guy. But ultimately I don’t care enough one way or the other. Debbie will survive.

You’re still perusing the menu. Carl gives you a cursory glance and looks around the diner, which doesn’t seem to have any staff in attendance at all at the moment. Then he looks back at you. “Don’t I know you, son?”

You reluctantly look up and then grin. “I don’t think so. But if you’re unsure about who’s your offspring and who isn’t, I’d suggest the use of condoms. Believe me, anyone around here could give you advice on which ones are best.”

Carl frowns but gets distracted by Debbie, who’s just coming out of the back. He moves towards her and I watch them have a conversation, which is strangely quiet and subdued for Debbie. It doesn’t seem to go well because Carl leaves soon after without another look at you or me. Then Debbie comes over to our table.

“Lover’s tiff?” I ask with a soft smile.

“None of your business,” she says curtly. “Although I assume you’d be on his side anyway. Since you both have the same boss.”

“Stockwell’s not my boss, Deb. I just work on his campaign.”

“And don’t care what he’s doing to your community. Shame on you.”

I’ve heard it all before and I don’t consider myself part of any community. As far as I’m concerned, there isn’t much common ground between guys from hugely different walks of life just because they all like to fuck each other. There’s enough bitching, envy and meanness amongst gays to put a senior high school class to shame. Although I have to admit that since Stockwell’s started to put the pressure on, many seem to have developed a semblance of communal spirit.

“And who’s this?” Debbie asks, dismissing me and looking at you.

“I’m Justin, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I watch with fascination as Debbie's anger seems to melt away instantly under the onslaught of one of your bright smiles.

“Well, aren’t you polite? And such a ray of sunshine. What are you doing with Brian then? Or need I not ask?” She glances at me for the answer to that last bit, which makes me grin. Then she smiles back at you.

“I work with him, ma’am.”

“Really? As what? You don’t look old enough to be in here, never mind old enough to work.”

“Justin owns a graphic design business. He’s doing some work for Vangard.” I pause a beat and smirk. “ _For the Stockwell campaign_.”

Debbie’s smile freezes and when you nod at her questioning expression, it dies completely. “Christ, I’m surrounded by traitors.”

You look stricken. “I’m just trying to make a name for myself, ma’am. I’ve only been in business for a year. This is a great opportunity for me.” There’s something about the way you say it that’s so innocent and hurt that even Debbie can’t reprimand you. Instead she pats your shoulder a little awkwardly, tells you to stop calling her ma’am and asks us for our orders.

“You actually got away with it,” I say, a little stunned, when she leaves. “I never do.” With me, she always gives me lectures about homophobia and solidarity.

You grin. “Yeah, that’s because you don’t look like a high school kid any longer. And you don’t know how to pout properly.”

I stare at you for a few moments until your words sink in. Then I bark out a laugh. “You’re a smart little shit, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea! And, hey, you heard her, I’m not a shit, I’m _sunshine_.”

I shake my head and, in answer to your questions, proceed to talk a little about Michael and Debbie, sticking mostly to bare facts. There are some incidents from my youth that involve both of them and make for good entertainment. I don’t leave out how Debbie’s organizing some very vocal resistance against Stockwell and how that has led to her rift with Carl.

“So you don’t know him?” I ask, remembering Carl’s question.

“How could I? I don’t usually have dealings with cops and I’ve been living away from Pittsburgh for a few years now. I just have one of those faces.” You talk about how you got your degree at Dartmouth and then returned to Pittsburgh because your mother’s ill. “She has MS and needs a lot of care. I don’t actually live with her, but Ethan and I don’t live far from her house, so it’s easy for me to spend time with her.”

I can’t actually imagine caring for my mother or even wanting to spend time with her. But there are different strokes for different people. Talking about mothers, especially with people who are fond of theirs and vice versa, always makes me vaguely uncomfortable, so I change the subject.

“So this Ethan doesn’t mind you fucking other guys?”

You shrug. “Why would he?”

I think that maybe a relationship like that could be bearable, but I really don’t see the point. If people want to fuck around anyway, what would be the point in tying themselves down in the first place? Much as I despise those breeder imitation relationships that all my friends seem to be embarking on, at least I can understand what they’re trying to achieve. I think they’re all doomed to failure but it makes sense to me. Kind of. What would be the point of having a boyfriend if you don’t want to be exclusive? Surely, fucking the same guy over and over again must get boring very quickly, especially when you can have variety on the side. And if you stop fucking each other, you’re really just glorified friends.

“You have all the benefits of a relationship, companionship, support, comfort and none of the pitfalls,” you explain.

“Love?” I sneer.

“That, too, usually.”

“I don’t buy it. Fucking your friends always leads to trouble. Are you sure Ethan sees it quite the same way?”

You smirk. “I can assure you that Ethan won’t come gunning for you.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

We have a companionable breakfast and linger longer than necessary over the sludge that passes for coffee at the diner. I offer to drive you home afterwards but you decline.

“I can stop round the corner if you don’t want Ethan to see me drop you off.”

“It’s not that. I have some errands to run. So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Two o’clock. I should be free for the rest of the afternoon to work on the posters with you.”

When we’ve said goodbye, I watch you stomp off towards your bus stop, wrapped up warm against the cold again. There was no attempt at a goodbye kiss or anything like that. You seem to be pleasantly free from attachment issues. My only regret is that I’d much rather take you home for another fuck, but this is just as well. I can go to the gym straight away now and get my needs met in the steam room afterwards. And if you’ll rather freeze your balls off on the bus than be driven home in the comfort of my penis extension, that’s your loss.

 

 

_******JJJJJJ******_

 

 

I enter my shitty apartment and find that my breath comes out in pale white plumes inside the apartment almost as much as it did outside. Why am I the only one who ever remembers to put the heating on timer before I go to bed? I make my way over to the thermostat and crank it up before taking off my coat and scarf. While the cold pipes start their warm-up concert of odd clanging noises, I go into the kitchen to start the coffee.

As expected, the noise brings Ethan out of the bedroom, still in his pajamas. He’s rubbing his eyes sleepily and his hair’s sticking out in all directions. The cuteness of that has long since worn off in light of it being more or less a permanent condition nowadays.

“Where have you been?”

“Where do you think? I’ve got a job to do.”

“I didn’t know it involved fucking that Kinney guy.” Ethan’s voice is plaintive.

“I need to make a good impression. We talked about this.” I know I’m lying through my back teeth here. There’s really no ‘professional’ reason to fuck you. It’s more of a bonus. But I don’t want to discuss this with Ethan. He doesn’t need to know that.

“Did you just get up?” I ask in a softer voice.

“Yeah, my wrist hurt like fuck last night, so I couldn’t sleep.”

Involuntarily, my eyes travel to his wrist, which is covered in a semi-elastic support bandage even after all this time. Then I quickly look away and busy myself with pouring two coffees and adding milk and sugar. The good mood I was in all morning evaporates steadily under the guilt I’m feeling.

“What do you want to do today?” I ask, pushing a mug over to Ethan.

“Don’t know. We could watch some TV. Or go back to bed,” he suggests hopefully.

“Hhm. I have to pick up Daphne in an hour and a half.”

Ethan looks disappointed. “Oh. Okay. I forgot about that.”

I feel even more guilty now. Whenever Ethan backs down so easily, I just want to do everything I can to make him feel better. It’s such a marked difference from how he was before the accident. Then, he was outgoing and ambitious, not withdrawn and listless like he is now. I didn’t feel the need to look after him in those days, or the wish to escape, which is sometimes overwhelming nowadays.

“We’ve time for a little cuddle,” I say and Ethan’s eyes brighten.

We go back to bed and I just want to doze off for a little while. For obvious reasons, I didn’t get much sleep during the night. So at first, I don’t react much to Ethan’s advances, but when he turns away from me and curls up into a ball, obviously upset, I relent and give him what he wants. I always do.

Afterwards, I take a quick shower and then dash out to get to the bus station in our second-hand car. Or fifth-hand would probably be a more accurate term. I don’t mind it so much but I know that Ethan resents that he has no access to his father’s money.

Daphne’s already waiting in the station’s parking lot and throws herself into the car, rubbing her hands together over the heat coming from the car heating vent.

“How was the journey?”

“Cold as fuck.”

“Did you get it?”

She grins. “There’s nothing Paul would deny me, you know that.” She looks out of the window, noticing the direction we’re taking. “Where are we going?”

“Starbucks.”

She gives me a long look but just nods silently. We both know that Starbucks means a long uninterrupted talk. I park the car and we make our way inside the café, where I put in the order while Daphne finds the most out-of-the-way table. Luckily, it’s not very busy.

“Did something happen?” she asks when I sit down but only stir my cappuccino without a word. It’s only been a week since it all started and things are already incredibly fucked up. And it’s all my own stupid fault.

“Yes and no.” Her face is showing alarm instantly, which is no more than I expected. “Don’t worry. Just a couple of minor hiccups. And Ethan being Ethan.”

She leans forward a little. Her hands must still be cold because she’s spreading them around her large cup of hot chocolate. “Start from the beginning.”

I start reluctantly with what happened at the fundraiser, then go on to my negotiations with Stockwell and his team, which got me the job working for you. Finally I tell her about the night we had and somehow I find myself going into way too much detail.

“All right, all right, stop,” she chuckles after a while. “I get it. Brian Kinney’s a sex god and he has more stamina than an energizer bunny. Enough already.”

I grin a little sheepishly. “Was it that obvious? I’m dreading having to work with him and having to pretend I don’t want him.”

“Kinda. But why did you fuck him in the first place? I mean, you knew who he was. You knew you had to work with him. Why did you do it? It’ll only complicate things – as if that was really needed.” She watches me take a deep breath to start over again and raises her hand in a preventing gesture. “I get it. You couldn’t help yourself when you saw him half-naked. He must really be something. What I want to know is: is it gonna be a problem?”

“What? No. No, I can do my job.”

“But you like him?”

I sigh. “Yeah, I do. He’s smart and funny. And gorgeous and sexy. He has this effortless air about him as if everything comes easy to him. He’s a cool guy.”

“So he’s everything that Ethan’s not.”

“It’s not about Ethan.”

“Actually, it kind of is. You can’t do this job without him. Not with Goldstein in the mix.”

“Yeah, I know.”

There’s a pause while I contemplate if I can really work with you and not let my feelings interfere. In the long run, what it comes down to is how well I can detach myself. I could maybe walk away now, but will I still be able to in three months’ time?

“You know how I feel about Ethan,” Daphne says quietly. “But there’s no denying that without him, there’s no job. Will he accept what’s going on?”

“Of course.”

I can see that Daphne has her doubts. She’s been telling me for a few weeks now that Ethan’s using the accident to manipulate me. I’m not stupid. I can see that myself, but the fact remains that I was the cause of Ethan’s injury. However accidental it was, it was through me that he broke his wrist and can possibly never play the violin again. I know how devastated I’d be if I couldn’t draw any longer. It‘s my duty to help my boyfriend back to full health, physically and mentally. Ethan wouldn’t be manipulating me like he does if he was his old self. The depression he’s experiencing is my doing, so it’s only right that I should suffer the consequences.

I take a deep breath. “There’s more.” I see Daphne’s worried face and know that she won’t let me dismiss this problem so easily. “Brian has this friend called Michael. Michael's mother’s a waitress in the Liberty Diner. And her boyfriend came by this morning. He’s a cop.”

“Oh fuck!”

“That’s not the worst of it. Remember when I got arrested for pick pocketing? It’s him.” I didn’t _actually_ get arrested. The cop saw me stick my hand in some woman’s handbag in a drugstore, showed me his badge and dragged me to his car. There, we had a long discussion about the consequences of my actions and it was only my youth, a sob story and a lot of tears that persuaded the guy to let me go with just a caution. The woman in question never even realized what went on.

“Did he recognize you?”

“Not quite.”

“What the hell does that mean, Justin?”

“He had a feeling that he knew me, but he obviously couldn’t place my face. It was years ago, Daph. He must have arrested hundreds of people in his career. He wasn’t particularly interested in me either. He’s probably forgotten all about it by now.”

“You don’t look that different. And it wasn’t that long ago. What if he remembers? And tells Brian?”

I shrug. I don’t think it’s a likely scenario. As long as I never run into the guy again, I’m probably safe. I don’t want to think about having to explain that particular episode from my past to Brian, not to mention that Stockwell might decide to sever his ties with me if he finds out.

“Maybe you should stop now, while you still can.”

“I can’t. We put too much work into this. You even went to Chicago to get me that program. I’m not giving up now.”

Daphne always worries too much. There’s no way I’m going to give up now when I’m so close to success. This is the biggest job I’ve ever had. I ask her how her trip went to distract her.

Daphne grins and tells me about her week with Paul, who’s her ex-boyfriend or maybe her current one. It’s difficult to tell with them. It sounds like she had a good time and she managed to get the program that I need for this job. Unfortunately, Paul wanted five hundred bucks for it. Both of us are only too aware that our savings are now nearly non-existent. All the more reason not to fuck up this job.

“What about Brian though?” she asks finally.

“Don’t worry about Brian. He’s not the clingy type. It was just a fuck to him… and to me.”

“You had breakfast together. That’s a little more than a backroom fuck, Justin. And you’ll be working together.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“God, I hope so. Just promise me to be careful.”

I smile my promise at her and we leave to go home. Ethan has withdrawn to the bedroom again or never got back up after our earlier fuck, so we’re undisturbed for the rest of the afternoon. Daphne shows me how to use the new program and then I play about with it until I can do it in my sleep.

After we order pizza, Ethan comes out of the bedroom and we all watch some TV. It’s a normal evening for us. The only thing that’s different is that I spend it daydreaming about a guy who isn’t the one resting his head in my lap.

 

 

_******BBBBBB******_

 

 

I’ve been to the gym and got a blowjob in the steam room but after that I’m at a bit of a loss. I talk to Michael on the phone for a while but can’t persuade him to come over. Apparently, he wants to go and check up on Melanie. Personally, I think that if there ever was a woman who can be pregnant without needing any assistance, it’s the über-bitch. She’ll probably still be dictating letters and working on depositions in the delivery suite.

In theory, I like the idea of my kid and Michael's being related. It’s like an extension of our relationship, but I’m more and more under the impression that Michael will have a very different parenting style from mine. If he’s going to spend a lot of time at the munchers’ house, it’ll put my own lack of involvement into sharp contrast. I can foresee getting a lot of shit for that from Lindsay. But I never completely lost my awkwardness around Gus and that will probably never change. My conviction that I’m doing my son a favor by staying away, coupled with Melanie’s open hostility, keeps my contact to the visits that Lindsay pays me. So being the fathers to the munchers’ kids is moving Michael and me further apart rather than closer together.

Since Michael no longer insists on spending every free minute with me, I realize how bored I am. Pittsburgh’s too provincial for my taste. I’ve seen everything, done everything and even done everyone. I want to be out there already and discover how far and how high I can fly. That’s the only reason I’m working so hard for Stockwell. It’s my last chance. If I don’t make it this time, I’ll just die a lingering death here. There simply aren’t enough challenges. And now that all my friends have other things on their minds, I realize how very little actually tethers me to this place.

The next day, I barely manage to finish all my other work before you arrive. I sometimes wonder if my workload has actually increased or if I’ve slowed down. Occasionally, I feel a strange reluctance to start on an account, which I recognize as procrastination or maybe just plain boredom. Vangard has some big accounts, most of them due to my ideas, but the smaller ones just don’t hold my interest. Just like Pittsburgh, the agency feels like it’s holding me back. I want more, bigger, brighter.

Ah well, at least your smile’s as bright as ever. I order coffee for both of us and refrain from asking how the boyfriend took the fact that you spent the night away from home. It’s none of my business. We knuckle down to work pretty quickly.

You have a good grasp on what I envision for the campaign. Given that Vangard employs people who’ve been working with me for years and still can’t transform my ideas into decent results without at least a handful of attempts, I’m pleasantly surprised.

You first draw the posters we’re designing. Your rendering of Stockwell is very accurate even though it’s only a draft. It’s quite amazing how you can make him recognizable with just a few pencil strokes. Then we discuss the placing of the script and the colors. Sometimes you shake your head and make different suggestions, always a little tentatively as if you’re not sure that you should. And I find myself more inclined to listen to you than I am with some of my colleagues, especially after you suggest a different shade on one of the posters and I feel it’s a definite improvement when I see your mock-up on the computer. You have a good eye and know your stuff.

At half past five, Cynthia sticks her head in the door and asks if we need anything before she goes home. Without thinking, I ask her to order some Thai food. When she’s left, I look at you. “Are you okay to work longer?”

“I’d love to.” There’s a slow blink and a seductive smile.

I grin and lean back in my chair. “Ian not gonna get upset?”

“ _Ethan_ is the reason I have this job. He’s hardly going to complain if I actually do it.”

“Maybe he didn’t anticipate you’d fuck on the job.”

You smile. “I haven’t actually fucked on the job… yet.”

And that’s pretty much the end of it. No matter how many times I told myself during the day that I’ve had you and therefore have no reason to fuck you again, the atmosphere between us is palpable. We work a little more and then eat our food when it arrives. And since the desk is already cleared of our work to eat anyway, we make good use of the free space by fucking on it. Twice. And I realize that the only thing I learned from my past mistakes is to not fuck during working hours.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

**PART  THREE**

Things are heating up. The campaign is gathering momentum and I’m spending more and more time on it, in the office as well as away from it. Stockwell has taken to running his whole schedule and all his speeches past me for advice. I’m far from being a speech writer, but I know how to sell things, or people, and I find myself editing and tweaking statements that make my skin crawl with disgust even after I’ve edited them – _especially_ after I’ve edited them. Stockwell’s vision for a cleaner city appeals to many voters already but the trick is to convince those who disagree with his methods that he isn’t quite as bad as they think. It isn’t so different from trying to convince people that they need a product when they really don’t. All advertising requires a generous dose of cynicism.

Two months before the election, I take Vangard’s camera crew and shadow Stockwell for a couple of days, gathering material for the TV spots for the last month. I want to focus on the man rather than the politician or the police chief and that involves watching him in a private setting. It’s a surreal experience. Even though it was my idea to use Stockwell’s family, I can’t imagine using my private life, and especially not Gus, for any cause. Not that the rest of my private life is suitable to win any votes at the best of times.

The heat gets turned up in other areas as well. Virtually everyone I know has joined the protest against the gradual eroding of the gay community. There’s no denying that there are cops everywhere on Liberty Avenue and beyond, patrolling the streets, sitting in bars, crawling by in their cruisers. It’s starting to get more than just a tad annoying.

One morning I’m having a rare breakfast with Michael at the diner and there are a couple of cops in one of the booths by the front door, doing not much more than intimidating people by their mere presence. It‘s the first time they‘ve targeted the diner and I could really have done without that.

“What are they even doing here?” Michael hisses exasperatedly. “Are they hoping that people will fuck on the tables, so they can arrest them?” Michael is the only one who talks to me as if I have nothing to do with Stockwell. I don’t know how he manages to conveniently forget that fact most of the time, but then again, he’s always been the master of self-deception.

“The quality of the coffee here probably makes them feel at home. And compared to their usual fare of doughnuts, the lemon bars must seem like haute cuisine.”

Michael grins and we both watch Lindsay enter the diner, pushing Gus in his buggy. One of the cops gets up and approaches her, making me start a little in my seat. I’ve trained myself not to react to the police presence. Most of them know that I’m working for their boss and leave me alone. The hard part is not to deliberately provoke them in any way. But here are Lindsay and Gus and I’m suddenly very alert.

“You don’t want to come in here, ma’am,” the cop says to her jovially. “This is no place for a lady. Or a child.” He bends down and tickles Gus’ cheek, making me want to smack him.

“Really? Why?” Lindsay looks around as if she’s trying to detect a hidden danger. Just why she includes checking the ceiling for that is another question.

“The customers aren’t suitable.”

Lindsay nods and smiles the deceptively sweet smile that she does so well. “Oh, thank you for pointing that out to me, officer. But I’m meeting my wife here and she’s a black belt, so I think I’ll be safe.” She pushes the buggy forward vigorously, forcing the cop to move out of the way in a hurry or get his foot run over, and makes her way to the back of the diner.

There are chuckles from the other patrons, although there aren’t many of them to begin with and most don’t want to draw attention to themselves in this new climate. The cop glares after her with a disgusted look and sits back down, telling his colleague loudly that DFS should have more powers to remove children from unfit mothers. I roll in my lips and take Gus when Lindsay hands him over.

“I’m tired of it,” Lindsay says quietly. “We can’t be ourselves anywhere anymore.” She gives me a long look full of accusation.

“It’ll all calm down after the election. He’s just making a statement.”

“And what if it doesn’t?”

It’s time to leave. In fact, recently it’s nearly always time to leave as soon as any of my friends turn up. With all the stress I’m under and the added hardship of having to deal with Stockwell on a daily basis, I just want to relax when I’m not working, but my friends have other ideas. To them it’s their life, not a job, and I inevitably end up in the firing line. It usually makes our interactions at the moment unpleasant at best.

But here’s Gus, whom I only see sporadically, and I can’t bring myself to walk away. So I just utter a confident, “It will,” and concentrate on my son. That always mellows Lindsay, who ends up smiling as she watches me and talks to Michael about Melanie’s health. Then the object of their conversation turns up, glaring at the cops on her way in, and I decide that enough is enough, hand Gus back to Lindsay and leave. It’s pretty much the same every time I meet them.

But where things get really hot is with you. I’ve long since given up on telling myself that I should stop fucking you. I’m Brian Kinney and I can do whatever I please. If I want to fuck you every time we meet, who’s to tell me otherwise? I’m not the one with the boyfriend, so I don’t have to account to anyone. And if it doesn’t interfere with my work, it’s no one’s business. Okay, so the only reason it doesn’t interfere with my work is because we work mainly from the loft and always get the fuck out of the way first. It’s just easier than working with a constant boner. And if by the time we finish working, the tension between us has grown to require another fuck or three, then what’s the harm in that?

I feel like I’m kind of suspended in time. I just have to get through the weeks until the election somehow. After that, things will go back to normal. Liberty Avenue will no longer be in the spotlight of ambitious politicians. My friends will calm down and forget what I did – they always do. You’ll be off on another job. And I will be working on launching the New York office. Nothing is permanent, so nothing matters.

But the fact remains that, apart from my few dealings with Michael and Lindsay, you’re pretty much the only person I talk to at length outside work. I’m a bit surprised how available you are. Not only are you always willing to fuck, you’re also around a lot. We work together most afternoons and then spend the evenings together and quite a few nights, too. I’m beginning to wonder if you’re even still dating Ethan, but I’m staying well clear of the subject. You really are good company, independent of the fact that you’re almost my _only_ company at the moment.

The day after the breakfast at the diner, I step into Stockwell’s office, which is depressingly familiar to me by now, and find you there as well as the usual suspects. I didn’t expect to see you until later on in the day and wonder what’s going on.

“Ah, Brian,” Jim says in his booming voice. “Please, tell Mr. Gold here how valuable some publicity would be for the campaign.”

I look at the only guy in the room I’ve not met before, a short, slightly stocky guy with dark curly hair and a weird patch of hair on his chin. He looks as much like a teenager as you do and his dark eyes are trained on me with obvious dislike, giving him a sulky look. So this is the elusive boyfriend and he doesn’t look quite as indifferent to what’s going on as you’ve led me to believe. He seems just one step removed from a temper tantrum. I can only hope that there won’t be a scene.

I stretch out my hand and smile down at Ethan, who’s sitting in one of the soft chairs in front of Stockwell’s desk. “Hey, I’m Brian Kinney. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gold.”

Ethan looks at my hand and hesitates for a moment. You’re standing beside him and now touch his shoulder a little, a gesture hidden from everyone else’s view by my body. That makes Ethan finally stretch out his hand and I shake it gently, taking care not to squeeze too tightly when I notice the bandage around it.

Then I ignore the wet blanket that is your boyfriend and put some physical distance between us by stepping over to the side of the desk. “So, what’s this all about?”

It seems that Stockwell’s team want Ethan to go public with his father’s donation, but he refuses, saying that his father insists on staying anonymous. That’s a shame because getting the reclusive Nathanial Goldstein behind the campaign would be a great publicity coup for its sheer rarity. Even just focusing on his son would be enough, but Ethan seems horrified, almost panicked, by the idea. Mostly he doesn’t seem very interested in the proceedings at all, watching me closely and leaving the talking to you. I try my best to change his mind but to no avail. And however much you might agree with me, your influence over Ethan, and especially Ethan’s father, doesn’t reach that far.

The contrast between the two of you couldn’t be starker. It isn’t just the light and dark coloring, it’s your whole personalities. Ethan is sullen and withdrawn, barely answering questions with more than one word. He obviously takes after his father. You, on the other hand, are your usual chatty and friendly self. It becomes obvious very quickly that everyone in the office is quite taken with you, even that Warner bitch. You know everyone’s name and talk to them as if you’ve known them for a long time. I can’t make up my mind whether to admire or despise you for playing to the audience – this audience in particular. But then again, don’t I do the same? Maybe I’m just not used to not being considered the most charming person in the room.

When you leave, I watch you and Ethan walk along the corridor and even though you’re not touching, your relationship is there to see – at least to me. It feels like there’s something odd about it, as if the power is definitely on your side, despite Ethan holding all the cards, but I dismiss it as unimportant. Unless Ethan is as well-preserved as you are and older than he looks, you have at least three years on him, so maybe it’s natural. My main interest is that I’ve nothing to fear from him – in any respect.

“Why does he have a different name from his father?” I ask.

“He’s a musician. Violin, I think,” one of Stockwell’s advisors says. “He was worried that it would be an embarrassment to his father, so he changed his name to Gold.”

“Is he any good?” someone asks.

“Not with that wrist,” I say laconically. “Shame he won’t play ball. It would be good to have Goldstein on your official sponsor list. Still, you’ve got his cash. That’ll have to be good enough.”

“Haven’t got it yet,” Stockwell mutters, slightly annoyed. He always is when he can’t get his own way.

“I thought he contributed to your campaign?”

“He will. Only, all his money is tied up in trusts. He won’t be able to free such a large amount until two weeks before the election. Still, it can pay for the last spurt of the campaign. The last weeks are always the most expensive.”

I don’t really know anything about campaign financing and I’m glad that I don’t have anything to do with it. I push all of that, including Ethan Gold, from my mind and turn to the speech at the Chamber of Commerce that Stockwell will be giving this afternoon. This one’s easy. He’ll be preaching to the choir.

 

 

 

I rest my forehead between your slightly damp shoulder blades and ride out my orgasm before I finally pull out. Tying off the condom and lying back on the bed, I look at the ceiling with a satisfied smile. This is always so good. Maybe it’s because I don’t often fuck in the comfort of my own bed anymore, or maybe it’s because you’re really good at this, but either way I find myself looking forward to it when I know that you’ll be around later. Then again, I always look forward to my next fuck.

You sigh a little and twist around, coming to rest pressed against my skin. That’s another thing I enjoy, that we almost always end up naked, even if it’s just a quick fuck before we start working. It’s such a change from my usual fucks in the backroom with my pants just lowered enough to do the trick. I’ve even got used to the conversations afterwards. We usually spend a while talking about unrelated things. I find myself more inclined to talk when I’m relaxed after a fuck and you’re unusually mellow as well.

“What happened to Ethan’s hand?” I ask the first thing that comes into my head when my body has come down from its high and my mind starts drifting.

“He broke it.” There’s a long pause and I already think the subject’s closed when you continue. “We were having an argument on the stairs to our apartment. There was a scuffle and he slipped and fell.”

I hear a complete subtext in your voice. Normally, I can only read Michael just by the sound of his voice, but I’ve spent so much time with you over the last few weeks that I’ve become very adept at reading your moods. This is rare, this sadness. Usually you’re indefatigably cheerful.

“Will he be able to play again? He’s a violinist, isn’t he?” I would never admit that I googled Ethan after our encounter in the morning. I found some basic information about his father and that Ethan’s studying the violin, and there were even some youtube videos of his performances. I refrained from watching those. I can’t stand violin music.

“He needs to do more physical therapy. But he’s too depressed for that at the moment.”

“And that makes you depressed as well,” I say, picking up on your mood. “Do you feel guilty?”

“Yeah, I do. I didn’t mean to push him. It was an accident. But he still ended up with a broken wrist because of me.”

“And if he would just do his therapy, he would recover. His daddy’s rich enough to pay for the best there is. He’s making his own pain. You shouldn’t let him suck you into that.” It’s the first time I’m trying in any way to involve myself in what I deem your private life. In general, we never mention Ethan.

Whatever your response to that may have been, it’s cut off by a loud knock on the door. I can’t imagine who it could be at two o’clock in the afternoon, when only the people in the office know that I’m working from home. Taking a deep breath, I heave myself out of bed and get dressed, while you pick up your clothes and disappear into the bathroom.

I quickly spread the covers into a semblance of order and go to answer the door. There, I’m confronted with Lindsay, who shoves Gus into my arms, and walks into the loft, carrying two large bags, saying, “Cynthia told me you’re home. Which is good because I need you to watch Gus for a couple of hours.”

“Why? Where are you going?” I don’t even ask what made her call my office during the day in the first place. Was she hoping I would drop everything and come running to babysit for her or that I wouldn’t mind Gus crawling around my desk while I work? This had better be some kind of emergency.

“Our babysitter got sick and I have to go to…” She stops when you come down the stairs from the bathroom. Then she turns and looks at me with an ironic smile. “You call this work?”

“We _are_ working. Which is why I can’t babysit.” I smile down at my son and make a face, which makes him laugh.

“Is this your son?” You smile broadly at Gus, leaning in close to me to get a better look.

Lindsay glares at you, obviously none too pleased with some stranger around her child. “Brian. I need to go to a meeting at the GLC. You know Mel and I are on the committee. If you could tear yourself away from your… entertainment and concentrate on your son for a little while, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Lindsay, this is Justin. He and I are _wor-king_.”

Lindsay’s demeanor changes instantly. She smiles widely and introduces herself to you, saying that she’s heard a lot about you. And you immediately start a conversation with her about the difficulty of finding decent child care facilities. I roll my eyes.

“Lindsay,” I say louder than intended. “Justin and I are here to work. I can’t look after Gus. And anyway, it wouldn’t be in my best interest to babysit for you. Not only would I then _not_ be working for my client, I would also allow you to work _against_ him.”

“I didn’t know you put politics above your son.”

I roll my eyes again at the obvious attempt at emotional blackmail, but before I can answer, you suggest that it will really be no problem to keep an eye on Gus while we’re working or to suspend work until Lindsay gets back if need be. By the end of that sentence, you’ve already taken Gus from my arms, unwrapped three layers of outer clothes and set him down on the rug. Lindsay is spreading toys everywhere and explaining the intricacies of bottle and baby food heating – to you.

Normally, I don’t let anyone ride roughshod over me, but I felt a small pang of regret at the thought of having to say no on one of the few occasions that the munchers are trusting me with Gus’ care, so I let it slide. Lindsay, who normally likes to linger, is out of the loft before I can change my mind. When I turn around from shutting the door behind her, you’re already sitting cross-legged on the rug ‘talking’ to Gus, thankfully in your normal voice and using ordinary words instead of annoying baby talk.

“Do you even know anything about kids?” I ask, wandering over and sitting down on the couch.

“I had a younger sister.”

“What happened?”

“Huh?” You look up from playing with the child, seeming a little confused.

“You said ‘ _had’_.”

“Oh.” You blush a little and bite your bottom lip. “She died. Car accident. When she was four.”

I nod and don’t quite know what to say. I refuse to utter platitudes like ‘I’m sorry’ when it’s neither my fault, nor would it change anything. And I can see that you’re upset at the mere mention of your sister and change the subject.

Naturally, we don’t get much work done for the rest of afternoon. Gus is a very active and inquisitive child and the loft isn’t exactly child-proof. For a while, you entertain him with magic tricks. It’s easy to impress a small child by pulling toy cars seemingly out of his ear, but I can’t see how you do it either. I watch you intently and every time I’m surprised where the object comes from when it seemed to be somewhere else a second ago.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“My mother bought me a magic set when I was a kid. It’s really not that difficult. It’s all about misdirection and sleight of hand.” It seems to be a habit of yours to be dismissive of your talents. I think it’s a pretty impressive party trick.

After Gus has eaten some food, he tires a little and ends up sitting on my lap, watching some child-friendly cartoon, designed to teach him his numbers. I should be bored, especially since Gus gets very upset if anybody talks during this very important program, but I find that I’m enjoying myself. I kiss his little fingers, which come up to cover my mouth whenever I say a word, and idly watching you draw in the big chair, I realize that Pittsburgh’s maybe not as bad as I thought. I certainly haven’t been as bored recently.

When Lindsay returns, her mood has changed to anger. I’ve noticed before that my friends take out their frustration over what’s happening in their lives on me, never more so than when they’ve all been together and talked about it at length. It’s as if without me working for Stockwell, their lives would be a gay paradise. I get it. I’m the only concrete target they have.

She starts immediately on the subject, roping you in as her support. Whoever told her ‘a lot’ about you, obviously failed to fill her in on a few minor details. So I take great satisfaction in telling her that you’re working for ‘the enemy’ as well. After that, she throws all of Gus’s toys into the bags and leaves without much more than a curt thank you.

The loft seems very quiet after that.

“She’s right, you know,” you say then. “Stockwell’s destroying everything the gay community has accomplished over the years. He will quash Liberty Avenue.”

I’m reluctant to give you the usual spiel about how everything will calm down after the election. You’re intelligent enough to work that one out by yourself. But I also can’t stand the idea that I will lose the one person I can talk to freely at the moment.

“Then why are _you_ working for him?”

“I need the job.”

“So do I. When all this is over, Vangard will be in a position to open an office in New York. And I’ll be out of this dump.”

You look at me for a while. “Sometimes you have to bend your principles a little to achieve your goals. I get that. The question is how far do we have to go?”

I hear subtext again, but I’m not entirely sure what it means in this case. I twirl my hand in an encouraging gesture for you to expand your point.

“I’ve watched Stockwell’s campaign from the very beginning. He was well behind until you came along. It’s pretty obvious that he wouldn’t be anywhere near where he’s now without you. Your campaign’s sheer brilliance.”

That’s exactly what all my friends are saying, that Stockwell couldn’t win without me. That I’m the one who makes it possible for the community to be destroyed. But I don’t want to hear it from you as well. Abruptly, I turn to pour myself a drink. “You’re working for him as well.”

“I’m aware of that,” you say unhappily. “But let’s be honest, we’re both gay and we’re helping a homophobic prick, who’s hell-bent on chasing us back into the shadows.”

“Haven’t you heard? We’re all going to hell anyway.” I drink my JB without turning around.

You ignore my sarcasm. “What I’m asking myself is this: if it’s so obvious that it’s your campaign that’s boosting him up, how far does it have to go?”

I turn around and look at you. “What are you getting at?”

You’ve never looked so serious before. “I mean, you and I rely on people taking notice of the campaign, so they can see how brilliant we are, or rather, you are. The question is, does Stockwell actually have to _win_ for them to do that? Or would it be enough for him to _almost_ win?”

“You’re nuts. It’s tough enough to run a campaign that works. It would be impossible to run one so that it _almost_ works.”

You nod, deferring to my judgment like you always do. “It was just a thought.”

And what a thought it was. I can’t get it out of my head for a few days. It’s true that Stockwell doesn’t have to actually win to make me a success. Everything will be easier and virtually guaranteed if he does, but a near win would be almost as impressive for my – and your – reputation. This is mainly due to the fact that he was trailing so far behind when I approached him. That was the whole point. If Deekins had been that far behind, I’d be working for him right now, although his sponsors are nowhere near as impressive.

But the fact remains that it’s impossible to pitch the campaign just right to achieve that. There’s always the possibility that Stockwell will notice or that it won’t be enough. Advertising just isn’t that sensitive a tool.

And I’m ambitious. I want to win because I _always_ want to win. Although maybe my dislike for Stockwell and everything he stands for could possibly outweigh my professional pride in this case. I’m already dreading the guy’s smarmy victory speech afterwards, so not having to listen to any of that would be good. But there’s always New York. Opening an office there may be possible with an almost win, but it isn’t a given. I’ve outgrown Pittsburgh. I know that. The thought of having to stay here makes me want to scream.

And if I can’t get away, there’s no guarantee that things will return to normal. My friends may take a lot longer to be forgiving this time than I’m expecting them to, which will be fine if I’m in New York but pretty irritating if I have to stay here for some reason. And even if they stop treating me like a leper straight away, what would that really mean? They all have their own little families now. I don’t. I don’t want one. And the only person who made the last few weeks bearable will no longer be here either. What you and I are doing at the moment has a limited shelf life. After the election, we’ll go our separate ways. At some point Ethan will no longer put up with his boyfriend taking a walk on the wild side. And if you decide you want to continue, do I really want that? Because then you will want _me_ to be your boyfriend and that isn’t part of the plan. However untethered I feel, it’s by choice. If there’s a home to be had anywhere, I will make one in New York, with new people and new challenges. And without being tied down by anyone, however good the sex or pleasant the company is.

There really is no alternative. I can’t risk getting stuck in Pittsburgh. It may be less than palatable to me but Stockwell has to win.

 

 

****** _JJJJJJ_ ******

 

 

Daphne looks tired from her nightshift when she comes in. On the way home from the loft, I bought bagels and Starbucks coffee and have set out breakfast on the kitchen table. I’m dreading having to go into the bedroom because I know Ethan will manage to make me feel guilty without ever saying a word.

Daphne staggers exaggeratedly into her seat, saying, “Coffee,” like it’s the only drop of water in a desert.

I smile at her. We’ve been friends since we were in kindergarten and living together and fending for ourselves for the last four years has only cemented our friendship. We’re closer than I am to Ethan, especially since the accident, when he changed so radically. Not that Daphne liked him much better before that. But she agreed to let him move in with us because I convinced her. I’m good at that.

“How was work?”

Daphne looks up at my question. “Okaaay,” she says, noticing the signs. She always notices the signs simply by the inflection in my voice. It’s uncanny and very comforting. “What’s up? You seem upset.”

“Not exactly upset. I fucked up yesterday.”

She puts down her coffee, instantly alarmed. “Fucked up how?”

“I told Brian about Molly. I know, I know…” I raise my hands in a pacifying gesture. “It just slipped out. I was distracted by his kid. He asked what I know about kids and I told him I used to have a sister.”

“And?”

“I told him the truth. That she died in an accident when she was four. And that was it. He didn’t ask any questions. Luckily, he’s not really interested in my personal life.”

“Still. You don’t forget stuff like that.”

“I know. I said I fucked up. Hopefully, it’ll be all right. It’s only a few weeks to go.”

“Justin, you have to make sure that he doesn’t get too close. You know that. It’s bad enough that you fell for the guy.”

“ _What_? I haven’t fallen for him. It’s just… we’re working together most days and he’s really sexy. It’s a guy thing…”

“Justin. I may not be a guy or gay, but I know you. You’ve fallen for him.” She doesn’t look any happier about it than I am.

“Well, maybe a little. But I know that nothing can come of it. And when the time comes, I’ll walk away.”

“ _Can you promise that?_ ”

Both of us turn to look at Ethan standing in the doorway. He’s dressed in yesterday’s clothes, which have obviously been slept in, looking at me with reproach and I curse myself for my carelessness. But at least in my own home, I wish that I wouldn’t have to mind my words. I don’t with Daphne, but Ethan is an altogether different matter. Especially at the moment, when he needs to be handled with such care. I wonder how I’d feel if Ethan had someone else he fucked on a regular basis and find that I wouldn’t mind, except for the obvious pitfalls in our situation. But on the whole it would be a relief not to be Ethan’s sole focus any longer.

I smile a soft smile. “I promise.” And it’s the truth. I won’t have much choice, even if my own situation was different. I’m under no illusion that you’ll want to continue what we’re doing beyond the election. You said as much on occasion. You want to go to New York and that blinkers you completely to your surroundings.

Ethan nods. “Come to bed,” he says simply and shuffles back to our bedroom.

Daphne pulls a face at his back for the first time in a long while. “He’s got to go, Justin,” she says tiredly. “He’s driving me up the wall. Just the sheer fact that I’m never alone anymore because he never fucking leaves the apartment.”

“Just give it a bit more time,” I say gently. “Actually, I wanted to discuss something else with you.”

She raises her eyebrows questioningly, while she spreads butter on a bagel. Then she puts it down and sips her coffee. She always finds it hard to eat something when she’s so tired after working nights at the hospital, no matter how hungry she is. Food also makes it difficult for her to sleep. Coffee, on the other hand, seems to have the opposite effect it should have.

“I want to stop Stockwell from winning the election. The idea that a guy like that becomes mayor goes against everything I believe in.”

“ _What_? You’re nuts. You don’t exactly believe in a lot of things, Justin, and _this_ is where you want to make your stand? How would that even work? You can’t mess up your work on purpose. Brian would never allow that.”

I smile at the thought that me being ‘nuts’ seems to be the general consensus. Maybe I am. I always suspected that I’m slightly manic. I tend to take on tasks that make other people shudder when they even think about it. I know Daphne is concerned about me. She was when I told her that I wanted to do this job and she’s even more so now when you’re involved, albeit for different reasons. Over the years, she has always been my voice of sanity, stopping me from taking too many risks and I’ve learned that I’d do well to heed her warnings. I know that she’s right about Ethan, just as she’s right about you.

“If you don’t want to help Stockwell win, just chuck in your job. It’s not too late. We can find something else.”

“But then he would win regardless. He doesn’t need me. We bribed him to accept me. All he needs is Brian.”

She sighs. “What are you planning this time?”

I’m not quite sure of that yet, so I just grin and give a one-shouldered shrug. Daphne rolls her eyes and gets up, coffee in hand. “Please, be careful, Justin. This is really big. You’re trying to keep too many balls up in the air. It’s too much. We’ll talk about it later. For now I’m going to bed. Maybe all this will look slightly less crazy when I’m not so exhausted.”

I have my doubts about that.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**PART  FOUR**

The new posters for the campaign have gone up and were well received although they didn’t make much of an impact. I didn’t expect them to. Nobody actually looks at election posters. They’re more there to keep the candidate in people’s minds. The trick is to find a balance between making sure that it’s Stockwell who stays in people’s minds and not over-saturate them to a degree that they get sick of him. I know how to pitch it just right.

You and I are working frantically on the TV spots for the last month before the election. We cut and re-cut the footage until it finally meets my standards. Although Claudia Warner is disgusted by the result and calls it a ‘virtually obscene pop video’, Stockwell gives his reluctant approval. I know that I’m suddenly a lot closer to my goal. One of my worries has always been that Stockwell wouldn’t accept my ideas. The man isn’t exactly visionary.

“If you wanted to make an _anti-_ Stockwell spot, how would you go about it?” you ask me one day.

I hesitate. It’s not as if I haven’t thought about it myself. Sometimes, when I’m really sick of Stockwell and his cronies, I play mind games along the lines of how I would be able to tear him down just as easily as I’ve built him up. It helps me get through my meetings. “Stockwell’s most vulnerable if people look into his past. He’s the chief of police. There are bound to be things he’d rather keep quiet about. Any unsolved case has the potential to ruin him if you can prove or just suggest that he didn’t try hard enough or deliberately looked in the wrong direction.”

You nod and carry on with your work. I know what you’re thinking but I’m not too worried. TV ads, at least those which make an impact, aren’t easy to create. And an inept attempt at discrediting Stockwell could easily be converted into positive publicity. For now I’m just glad that I’m not the only one who has doubts and still goes ahead regardless. Of course, I would never admit to those doubts. 

I barely have time to pay attention to what’s going on outside work. Occasionally, I wonder why I seem to be spending almost all my time with you and make an effort to go out more at night to fuck other people. But I’m so pressed for time that fucking you always presents itself as the more convenient solution. And since the sex is fantastic, I see no real reason to change it. It isn’t as if my friends are around much to notice and pass sarcastic remarks. And making myself scarce at Babylon can only raise my stock there.

The first time you bring your own food to the loft I’m more amused than uneasy, and only interested because it’s unusual. It’s contained in a flat box made of dark lacquered wood and consists of portions of rice, vegetables, fish and meat. You’ve brought your own chop sticks and eat the meal cold. You call it a ‘bento’, a Japanese lunch apparently.

“I really can’t stand take-out anymore,” you explain.

I eat my Thai food unperturbed.

After a few days, when you bring yet another ‘bento’, I notice that the rice is shaped like a face, the eyes, nose and mouth set with small vegetable pieces. I have to smile and take a closer look. You really are an artist. Your offer that I could try some leads to finding myself being fed by you with samples of the different foods. There’s something so cloyingly sweet and intimate about the whole incident that I feel the need to throw you out after work without a fuck. I wouldn’t want you to get too attached, so I go to Babylon instead.

Still, the food _is_ good.

The next day you bring me my own ‘bento’, all homemade, stored in an identical wooden container and lovingly arranged. I hesitate because I feel like my wife’s made me food for work or worse, my mother has packed my lunchbox for school. But my resistance breaks down when I notice the rice in the middle being shaped like a penis, complete with Brussels sprouts for balls and pubic hair made of thinly chopped cabbage strips. I laugh and eat. And when we finish our work, we naturally progress to my bed again.

You do all your work from your own laptop, which you take everywhere. When I ask you if you even have an office, you admit sheepishly that your company is so small that you work from home. It seems extraordinary to me that you managed to persuade Stockwell to include you in the campaign in the first place. Ordinarily, Vangard would never work with such a small company.

“How much is Goldstein giving Stockwell?”

You grin. “A cool million.”

Well, that explains it then. I count myself lucky that you’re so talented because for that amount, Stockwell would probably have foisted you on Vangard regardless of your abilities. I very much doubt that he checked those anyway.

What I like about you is your professionalism. You’re always completely prepared and, unless you’re angling for a fuck, you’re almost more focused on your work than I am. One day you’re in the middle of doing some air brushing, when you suddenly swear under your breath.

“What’s up?”

“Battery’s dying. I’d better save this quickly. I forgot my charger.”

I hesitate for just a moment. My private laptop has a virus on it and my work laptop is sacred. Vangard has strict rules about encryptions and access and I’ve always abided by them. I even lock my laptop in a small safe in my desk whenever I leave it at the loft, a habit I picked up after the break-in. But we can’t carry on working without your programs and it’s still early – too early to finish for the night.

“You can use mine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure. I’ll just create a guest account for you.”

I do just that and then watch you upload your work. Or rather, I try to watch you, while you’re standing between my legs and wiggle your ass. Then you grin over your shoulder and push the laptop to one side, before you turn around in the small space between my chair and the desk.

“Now, how can I show my appreciation while this loads up?” You palm your crotch seductively.

With a grin, I decide we may as well use the time wisely and fuck you on the desk. Later when I look over your shoulder as you’re working, I try to ignore the nagging voice at the back of my head which tells me that I would never let anyone else use my laptop. But, as I’m amusing myself with distracting you by breathing over your skin, making you shudder each time, the thought is replaced by more important issues. It’s just as well. I don’t like this accumulation of little exceptions I’m making to my rules.

But it’s when I find myself traipsing around a supermarket with you the next week, that I feel enough is enough. You said that you had to leave a little early to go grocery shopping and I offered to drive you without much thought. I hate grocery shopping, so much so that I do most of mine online because I know how tedious and awkward it is, especially without a car. But I decided I needed milk.

It was natural to offer my help, but as I watch you load the shopping cart with speed and efficiency, it feels too much like… something. Domesticity perhaps, regardless of the fact that the food isn’t for us, but for you and your boyfriend. And that’s another point that doesn’t sit right with me. Why am I doing something that the boyfriend should be doing? And why does it bother me that the food is for the loving couple? I have to stop. This is getting out of hand and I have to rein it back to a more professional level. Or just strictly work and fucking.

The one saving grace is that the supermarket is near your home, not anywhere near Liberty Avenue, so the likelihood of anyone seeing me do this is negligible. On the other hand, I can’t even go cruising here in breederland. To my relief, we’re finished quicker than expected, considering the amount you’re buying. The idea is that you’ll walk from here to your apartment, which you said is just around the corner.

As we’re crossing the parking lot, we’re stopped by a man, who steps slightly in front of you. He’s middle-aged, smartly dressed in a breeder kind of way, with thin light hair that’s starting to recede. He has his own bag of shopping and a large pack of diapers clutched in his arms.

“Justin?” It comes out a little tentatively, as if he isn’t certain he recognizes you.

You look up and your face takes on a strange expression. It’s almost like you’re panicking or maybe you’re just really shocked. You certainly don’t look happy.

“I thought it was you,” the man says. “I didn’t know you were still… in Pittsburgh.” He sounds no more pleased about that than you look about meeting him.

“You can’t tell me where to go, Dad,” you say coldly. “You lost that right a long time ago. And if you get out of my way, you won’t even have to look at me. I’ve no intention of going anywhere near you, so we’ll both be happy.”

The man looks like he’s going to say something else, then he looks at me, while I instinctively put my hand on the small of your back, and he steps aside. I recognize the look of utter disgust immediately and make it my business to hold his eyes and even watch him as he turns and gets into a small van with a company logo on the side.

You stalk over to the corvette and wait for me to unlock it. Then you stuff the shopping bags behind the seat with obvious agitation and we both sit in the car for a while. I offer you a cigarette, which you take although you rarely smoke, and we stay silent throughout the length of it.

“So, that was your dad…” I say finally.

“Yeah.” Your cigarette butt gets thrown out of the window and I don’t say anything to that. It shows me how riled up you are because normally you clean up after yourself meticulously. “I haven’t seen him for a long time.”

“How long is a long time?”

“Five years. He doesn’t like the fact that his son’s gay.”

I’ve already gathered that from the look the man gave me. Against my usual inclination, I want to ask a myriad of questions, first and foremost whether there’s been any violence. But you don’t look like you want to talk about it and what difference would it make? It’s not as if you’re in any danger from your father now.

“Do you want to come back to the loft?” I’m not quite sure what good I can do but I’m loath to let you go after this encounter. Whenever I visited my father, I never wanted to be alone afterwards. I always went to Mikey, usually steaming drunk.

“I do… but I have to go home,” you say unhappily.

Yeah, there’s that, of course. You won’t be alone, will you? You’ll be with your boyfriend who knows all about your asshole father and provides – how did you put it? – companionship, support and comfort. All I have to offer is sex.

I start the car.

 

 

 

When I see you the next day, you’re back to your usual cheerful self. And yet you aren’t. You’re not exactly clingy but there’s something in the way you touch me that is more tender than usual. I’m not sure if I like it or rather, I like it just fine, I’m just not sure if I like what it implies. I’m almost relieved when you decide to go home after work instead of spending the night, saying you need to see your mother.

But yet again I’m too busy to think about it much. For a while now my other accounts have demanded more of my attention. There are only so many quick fixes I can apply before a longer intervention becomes necessary. Vangard can’t afford to lose any of its other clients over Stockwell and most of the bigger ones require my personal touch.

I like being busy. I don’t need to think about my friends, who never speak about anything but my involvement with Stockwell when we meet. I don’t need to put up with seeing cops everywhere around Liberty Avenue because I don’t have time to go out much. And I don’t need to think about you.

What I do need to think about is Stockwell. The very next day, the man storms into my office unannounced, trailed by his two most important sycophants and complains about the posters that have appeared overnight. I saw them on my way to work. My friends were gathered around one of the few that were near Liberty Avenue and gleefully talked about it. I was merely amused. The rendering of Stockwell is as accurate as I would have expected, the mustache makes him look ridiculous and menacing at the same time. The posters reveal more about who the man really is than any words could, simple but effective. But ultimately they’re too crude to make much of an impact.

Stockwell disagrees. “There’s hundreds of them. Hundreds! People are laughing at me.”

It’s true that politicians can afford to be sinister or arrogant or even dumb as shit, but no politician can afford to be ridiculous. I talk to Stockwell for a good half hour about how he should react to this, reassure him that it will have very little impact and wonder all the while what it says about the man’s ability as a police chief if he can’t apprehend one little vandal. I’m tickled by the idea that part of the problem might be that a vast contingent of cops was tied up with patrolling Liberty Avenue, where hardly any posters appeared.

In the evening when I see you, I simply say, “Nice posters. But give Stockwell some wrinkles. He looks younger than me.”

You smile softly and blink rapidly in that faux innocent way that you have. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you think they’ll make a difference?”

“Well, they were on the local lunchtime news, but so was Stockwell, laughing about them. So, no, I think my campaign will be safe.”

You grin broadly and I take it as the challenge it’s obviously meant to be. I grin back at you, accepting it. It’ll be fun to see if you can derail my work at the last moment. I admit to myself that it isn’t a fair contest because I have the Vangard advertising machine and my years of experience behind me, whereas you only have your wit, your talent and limited resources. Although with Ethan Gold and his father’s money at your disposal, your resources may be a lot less limited than they could be.

The next week a second set of posters appears, unsurprisingly on the only night you aren’t staying at the loft because you have ‘to see your mother’. I realize that you must have help. There’s no way you could put up that many posters all by yourself, especially with the police now on the lookout for the perpetrator. Judging from my own friends’ reaction, any of them would be all too happy to lend a hand.

By then, Stockwell has calmed down considerably and I just have to supply him with some pointers how to react to this one. You just grin when you see me the next time. I’m not worried. The posters are just a minor hiccup as I predicted. But they do irritate Stockwell and his staff and that’s a rare bonus.

 

 

 

It‘s just over three weeks before the election when everything comes to a head. I’m adamant that Stockwell shouldn’t shirk the difficult engagements like his advisors want him to do. Meeting with minority groups is important for his image and despite Stockwell’s obvious discomfort at engaging with them, he’s impressive enough to come out in a positive light whenever he does.

I grudgingly attest the man some charm and have to think about how much Stockwell must hate the fact that he once shared a hot tub with a gay man to make myself feel better about it. Of course, that was before he knew I’m gay. Nowadays, he stays at a safe distance of about three feet at all times. I tested that theory one day and found it comical how Stockwell moved back every time I closed in a little. Yeah, I know where we all stand. Without Vangard behind me, I couldn’t even be sure that Stockwell would actually share his sponsor list after the election.

I don’t ordinarily attend any meetings but Stockwell insists that I should come to the GLC. He probably thinks he can pull the old ‘one of my closest advisors is gay’ card again if things get too ugly. I don’t relish that idea because most of my friends will be at the meeting. If it comes to that, I really _have_ to go to New York because bridges don’t get more thoroughly burnt than that. Luckily, with the GLC willing to endorse Stockwell as their preferred candidate, it’s not likely to happen.

There are some uncomfortable questions at first, which Stockwell deflects with the usual ‘it wasn’t my fault because my predecessor/opponent/Santa Claus cut my funding’. And then the giant photos come out and the facts about hate crimes and the lack of action by the police. Debbie finishes it off with that dumpster boy she was so upset about and apparently still is. I can admire the intricate research and flawless execution of the protest. You’ve really outdone yourself, even if you’re not here to witness your triumph.

Some part of me is quite proud, not just of you for organizing it but also of my friends for standing up for themselves, however futile it may be. The other part is dismayed. This is so much more than a few posters, this is a well thought-out argument thrown into the discussion in front of running TV cameras. And despite the GLC organizers trying to come to his rescue by cutting the meeting short, Stockwell doesn’t look at all good.

When I meet up with him and his team afterwards, the accusations come thick and fast. They all feel that I should have anticipated this somehow because these are ‘my people’. And wasn’t I the one who insisted on going there in the first place? The implication is that I knew about it or even instigated it. My sarcastic replies don’t make much headway with them either and I’m dismissed from the meeting very quickly.

I’m angry with Stockwell for blaming me for something I had no control over, as if politician don’t meet with outspoken protests all the time, as if Stockwell doesn’t deserve this. I’m also angry with myself for not anticipating this, for starting this little contest with you in the first place, for practically telling you how to go about it. I was completely blindsided by the posters, expecting them to be all there’s going to be. And most of all, I’m angry with you. It’s one thing to put up ridiculing pictures to appease your conscience a little. I have to admit that they somewhat appeased my own conscience as well. As if the fact that I know who’s doing it and don’t say anything makes me part of the protest.

But it’s quite another to ambush my client at a meeting – with a weapon that I supplied. And not only that, I have the feeling that I’m on the verge of getting fired again, if it hasn’t already happened as I’m driving along. I will have it out with you. This has to stop. I can tolerate Stockwell losing the election if you can manage it. But having my dream of going to New York destroyed when I’m so close I can taste it is unacceptable.

As I’m taking the stairs up to your apartment – from the layout of the door bells it has to be on the top floor, the only one without a name – I wonder if you will even admit your involvement. We never outright talked about what you’re doing. But that’s one problem I no longer have to consider when the door’s answered by a girl with very distinctive pigtails, interwoven with multi-colored ribbons – the same distinctive pigtails she wore at the GLC meeting two hours ago, where she held up the photo of a woman who was murdered in a park.

“Oh shit,” she says when she sees me.

“Yeah, that just about covers it.”

She sighs and opens the door to let me in. I’m strangely impressed by her lack of panic. She just shuts the door and makes an inviting gesture towards one of the doors. It leads into a small living room with very little furniture, a couch, an armchair, a table and a TV on the floor. There are some packed duffle bags in the corner as if someone’s going somewhere or just arrived.

“Justin, Brian’s here!”

You come out of what seems to be the kitchen, looking a little shocked. “Brian? What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing here, you little shit? Do you know what you’ve done?”

You look at me without any of your usual cockiness. “I did what I had to do,” you say quietly. “It’s not as if you didn’t know.”

“You let me walk in there completely unprepared! You took _my_ ideas and you fucking used them against me! And now I’m getting the blame for your mess and by this time tomorrow I’ll probably be off the campaign! I won’t let you ruin this for me. I swear to you if I lose my chance to get out of here because of you…” I take a deep breath and try to lower my voice. Or find a realistic threat to finish that statement.

“You knew what I was doing! You told me how to do it!”

“I never thought you’d actually do it!”

“You hate the man’s guts. You know he’s a homophobe and a bully. You know he will destroy everything and yet you work for him. You can’t be that blind.”

“I’m not blind. I simply don’t care. The world’s not gonna turn into a better place just because little Justin doesn’t like it the way it is. No politician’s gonna do shit for the queers. The others just pretend they don’t hate us.”

“Us? Really, Brian?” Your voice is dripping with sarcasm now. “Suddenly, there’s an us? Aren’t you the one who doesn’t believe in the gay community?”

“So I’m a fraud. Or a traitor. And you’re the savior of all things gay. Get off your high horse, Justin. You’re no better than me. Because you’re working for the same guy. Only you’re not in danger of losing your job, are you now? No, that would be me!”

“Well, you can always tell your boss that I’m the one behind the posters and the protest today. Might earn you some points.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Well, do it then, I’ll be glad to be out of it.”

“Justin,” the girl says warningly.

You look at her and then down at the floor. After a few deep breaths, you look back at me. “I’m sorry you got caught in the crossfire.”

“Yeah, well, sorry’s bullshit.”

“Yeah, it is.”

I suddenly feel deflated. Looking at you, I realize that I’m angry because it was so unexpected. All my friends could have done the same thing – and did or at least participated – and I wouldn’t feel half as bad. But you I had considered an ally. From you, I expected some kind of loyalty. And why? Because we’ve been fucking for a couple of months now? How pathetic is that?

I turn when I hear a noise to my right and see Ethan come out of one of the rooms, looking slightly disheveled. “What on earth’s going on here?”

Great, isn’t that just the icing on the cake! I ignore him and look back at you. “Just stay the fuck away from me!”

I’m still fuming by the time I reach the loft. Tearing off my clothes and uncharacteristically throwing them across the room, I go to have a long shower. Afterwards I feel marginally better, at least enough to take care of my expensive suit. Then I grab a bottle from the drinks cart and my stash and settle on the couch.

Ordinarily, this would be the kind of situation where I’d call Michael and get him to come over. Michael has always been the sounding board for my frustrations and my safety net. And he’d come – he always does – but he wouldn’t be too sympathetic in this situation. He might even consider me getting fired from the campaign a good thing. I couldn’t bear listening to him prattling on about how it might be for the best. And the only person who’s been on my side over the past few weeks is out of the question. If I never see you again, it would be too soon.

Three hours later, I’m slightly drunk and slightly baked, so I get ready to go out. There’s nothing a good fuck or three can’t cure or at least make bearable. It’s just my luck that on the way to Babylon, I run into Debbie, who‘s coming out of the diner after finishing her shift.

“Your guy’s not looking too good now, is he?” she crows.

“All politicians have to put up with attacks from the lunatic fringe,” I drawl, no longer caring much about anything. Let her do her worst.

She smiles softly. “Well, I’m glad you saw the light. I was a bit worried about you for a while there.”

What light? “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” I linger a little, not because I’m interested in what she has to say but because there’s no venom in her voice or look for a change. It’s been a long time.

“Of course, you don’t.” She taps her nose knowingly and pats my arm a little before walking on towards home.

I blink and wonder if I overdid the JB and weed a little because I seem to have missed the point of that conversation completely. Then I shrug and turn towards Babylon.

The club engulfs me with its heat and mass of gyrating bodies. It always makes me feel at home. Here I can be myself, don’t have to defend my actions to anyone and get laid in the process. I don’t think I need any more alcohol tonight, so I make my way to the backroom straight away – only to find it padlocked with a closure notice attached. I’ve never even seen the door shut in all the years I’ve been coming here, never mind actually locked. Fuck! Or not. At least not here.

 

 

****** _JJJJJJ_ ******

 

 

For about half a minute, there’s complete silence in the apartment after you leave. I don’t want to look at either Daphne or Ethan right now or talk, but there’s nowhere to be alone. So I just stand there, deep in thought. I didn’t mean for this to happen. You getting fired over this was never my intention. How did you end up getting the blame for it? I really underestimated the scapegoat mentality of these people.

I never wanted Stockwell to win the election. When I started out, there wasn’t any indication that he would, but I didn’t take your genius into account. I can even sort of understand your motivation in this. Surprisingly, I never thought about the political consequences until recently. Stockwell and you were just an opportunity for me.

But things have changed. I’ve come to witness the effect Stockwell has on Liberty Avenue. People are defiant at the moment, ignoring the police as much as possible, organizing protests and hoping that Stockwell won’t win. But what if he does? Will things really calm down like you purport to believe? Or will Stockwell, freed from the scrutiny of an election campaign, strangle the life out of the gay community? If he wins the election, he can even claim that he has a mandate for that.

And then there’s you. I liked you from the first moment I saw you. You’re fun to be with, the sex is fantastic and you rival my considerable intelligence, if you don’t surpass it. Fuck, whom am I kidding? I’ve fallen for you, big time, the kind of falling for someone where I won’t hit the ground anytime soon, if ever. Or if I do, I may shatter into a million pieces when there’s no one there to catch me. And there’s no chance you’ll do that, is there? Everything, absolutely everything has changed, so much so that I want to stop what I’m doing and just try and be with you. And maybe I would do that, if I didn’t know that you’d never allow it.

I took my poster campaign and the protest at the GLC as a friendly competition. And I thought you felt the same way. You even indicated as much. I’d throw some spanners in the works, then you’d fix it somehow and wait for my next move. Like a game of chess. In the end, we would both walk away. Of course, you don’t know what I’m planning and what if you can’t walk away in the end? Messing up people’s plans is okay when it’s Stockwell but not when it’s you.

You hate me now. I could see it in your eyes. And that’s the worst, that you won’t smile at me anymore or look at me with those beautiful eyes. Recently things between us have moved to a higher level, softer somehow. Not the fucking itself but the way we treat each other. I’ve told myself that it’s just guilt for lying to you, but now, when it’s all over, I know that it’s something different altogether.

“Do I have to put up with that guy in my own home as well now?” Ethan snarls at me. “Isn’t it enough that I have to put up with you fucking him?”

“Yeah, like that’s exactly what we should be focusing on,” Daphne replies sarcastically. “And this isn’t _your_ home.” She turns back to me. “How does Brian know where we live?”

“He drove me home the other day, remember? When I saw my dad at the supermarket.”

“You’re getting careless. I really don’t want to get caught in the fallout, Justin.”

“It’s not a problem. I already told him I work from home. He doesn’t care.”

“Well, maybe he didn’t when he couldn’t see past your ass. But what about now? What if he starts asking questions?”

“I know, I know. I fucked up, alright? I was rattled. I wasn’t thinking straight that day. I’m nearly done with the job. It’ll be over soon.”

“How soon?” Ethan asks. “Because soon can’t come soon enough as far as I’m concerned.”

“Me neither, actually.” It’s clear that Daphne finds it distasteful to agree with Ethan on anything, even the obvious. “Can you still do it without Brian?”

“Sure, but it would depend on how persuasive I am with Stockwell.”

“Justin, the election’s in three weeks.”

“Yeah, I know. It’ll be fine.”

Daphne sighs. “If you say so.”

I know I should be focusing on the job I have to do. But all my life I’ve always wanted everything at once and getting it has been a game to me. This time I have to wonder if I’ve overreached myself. Or if the parameters have changed. I lost sight of the main objective and focused on my feelings instead. There wasn’t much choice involved in that, it just happened, almost immediately. And the game has turned very serious indeed. You now have the potential to destroy me – in every sense of the word.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

**PART  FIVE**

I’m mildly surprised to find Claudia Warner waiting for me the next morning. Cynthia’s rolling her eyes behind the woman’s back and the corner of my mouth comes up in an answering smirk, which I can’t quite suppress. I spent the rest of last night fucking a couple of guys I hooked up with over the internet and feel reasonably prepared for my day. I’m not even particularly perturbed by the new set of posters, which have appeared overnight. These ones are capitalizing on the incident at the GLC and focus on Jason Kemp.

Grabbing my coffee off Cynthia’s desk, I follow Ms Warner into my office. This will be interesting.

“Yesterday was a disaster,” she says accusingly, as if we haven’t already been through this. Her tone leaves me in no doubt that the blame for that is still squarely on me as far as she’s concerned.

“I’m aware of that. I noticed that the police haven’t caught the vandals yet.”

“They will. Jim’s decided to give you the benefit of the doubt and wants to know how you’re going to fix this.”

I hide my surprise at my continued participation in the campaign behind a chuckle. “You mean he realized that firing me at this juncture would pretty much give those people who’re calling him a homophobe all the ammunition they need. And he has no idea what to do now.”

“We always know what to do, Mr. Kinney. We’d just like your input. That is what we pay you for after all.”

“Well, you certainly know how to do terribly in the polls. You did it before I came along and without my help you will again.”

“Mr. Kinney, can we get to the point?”

I smile and hold out my hand. “Show me his schedule and the speeches and I’ll work something out.”

She passes me one of the folders from her bag. I tip my chair back, open the file, and say without looking up, “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

I don’t have to look at her to know that she’s fuming at my curt dismissal. Good. I can’t stand the bitch. When I hear her leave the office, I look up at the ceiling and slowly blow out a breath. I should have thought about it before. Stockwell couldn’t fire me now if he wanted to – which he surely would be more than happy to – not if he wants to retain his gay-friendly facade. The real problem for him is that a suggestion of institutionalized homophobia in his police force has been made. I’ll have to look into the concrete examples that were given and quickly. For that, I’ll have to find Hunter. But first things first.

 

 

 

If I was a little surprised by events at work, everything gets a bit crazy when I leave. First there’s my encounter with Hunter. The idea that a teenager has a crush on me may be amusing in theory but turns out to be tedious in the extreme in practice. Especially when the teenager in question is a hustler – or an ex-hustler as Michael insists – complete with the accompanying forwardness and cheesy lines.

Having to spend a couple of hours in a dingy pick-up bar with him, where all the other guests are middle-aged losers and the sheer age difference between me and Hunter makes me feel as ancient as they are, isn’t much fun either. Not to mention that the kid’s inane attempts at conversation drive me up the wall. Whenever I was out with you, I always felt that you somehow enhanced the impression I made by your looks and behavior, despite also looking like a teenager still. With Hunter it’s plain embarrassing.

But at least it yields the desired results. The john who was with Jason Kemp before he died, according to Hunter, turns up eventually. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t show much interest in me when I speak to him. Well, he wouldn’t if he likes them young. But I do get a good look at him and then all I have to do is stop Hunter from giving the game away.

Truthfully, I’m not entirely sure what the game _is_. I’m focusing on the Jason Kemp case because Hunter has always insisted that his last customer was a cop. If that’s true and the media get hold of that little tidbit, Stockwell will be sunk for sure. Hell, even if just you get hold of that information, Stockwell will be done for. It’s surprising that you haven’t yet because you must have been in contact with Debbie to organize the GLC event and Debbie knows everything Hunter knows.

When I drive Hunter home, we get a lecture from Ben, who’s unfortunately coming home at the same time as we arrive. It’s not quite clear whether the issue is that Hunter was with me or what we’ve been doing. Luckily, I haven’t got out of the car yet and simply drive away with a cheery, “Say hello to Mikey from me.” I’m not surprised that Hunter keeps skipping out on Ben and Michael at every opportunity.

But my real surprise of the day comes when I get home and find you sitting on the cement floor outside the loft with your back leaning against the metal door. You must be freezing even bundled up in your pea coat and scarf.

“Hey,” you say a little sheepishly.

“Fuck off.”

“Do I still have a job?”

“You do. And so have I, no thanks to you. Now fuck off. Any work we have to do will be done at the office.”

“But in your office, we only have the desk to fuck on and in your loft, there’s that nice big bed. Where you can spread me out and take your time until I beg you to let me come.”

Yeah, like I’m going to fall for the dirty talk tactic twice. That’s how all this mess started, when you got me all horny at Babylon so I’d fuck you again. Why didn’t I just stick to my rules? They’ve worked perfectly for years. I glare down at you. You have a mischievous grin on your face and I can’t open the loft door while you’re leaning against it, so I wait. As the seconds go by, it’s you who gives in first. Your grin disappears, to be replaced by a soft look, which is becoming familiar to me by now.

“I’m so sorry, Brian. I didn’t realize how this would backfire at you. I just wanted to do something and I thought we had this little competition between us. And… I should have realized that this could screw up your life. I’m usually so good at predicting outcomes.”

“And what outcome did you predict for coming here tonight?”

You produce a smile as soft as your look. “That you’d shout at me for a while. And then you’d realize that you still have to work with me and calm down. And then you’d remember how much you like me and be glad that I came. And then you’d think that I’m really hot and you’d much rather fuck me than sulk.”

“Is that so? And nowhere in that little fantasy of yours did you foresee the possibility of me kicking your ass down the stairs?”

“Well, there was that. But it only carried a probability of eleven point seven three percent.”

I’m trying not to laugh by this point and your smile widens a little. Then I yank the door open, despite you leaning against it still, and you fall backwards onto the hardwood floor, where you stay for a moment, spread-eagle, still smiling up at me. I place my feet on either side of your hips and look down on you menacingly. “I don’t care what you do to the campaign, but if you lose me my job with Stockwell, I will hunt you down.”

“Promise?” You give me that slow blink that never fails to make me hard somehow.

“I swear on my mother’s grave.”

You nod, then frown. “You said your mother’s still alive.”

“Yeah, that she is.” I step away from you and walk to the bathroom, shedding my clothes on the way. Behind me I hear you get up, close and lock the door and then hurry to follow me. I suppress a smile.

 

 

 

“So that girl’s a friend of yours? Does she help you put up the posters as well?”

It’s after our shower. We’ve ordered some take-out and are just lounging at either end of the couch, waiting for it. I’m imagining ways to punish you for endangering my job so recklessly but that can wait until after the meal. I’m planning to spend a considerable amount of time on it.

“Daphne? Yeah, she’s been my best friend since kindergarten. We’ve been sharing an apartment forever.”

“Since kindergarten?” I chuckle.

“No, not quite that long. But about five years now.”

“She was at Dartmouth with you?”

“Huh? No. Yes, I mean, she was working while I was at college.”

I frown because it sounds a little off, but you don’t elaborate. “So she helped you at the GLC?”

“Kind of. I went to Debbie and told her what I had planned. But of course, I couldn’t go there myself, so Daph took all the stuff there and prepped everyone. She’s good at organizing things. By the way, I may have given Debbie the impression that it was your idea. Just… uhm... simply because I didn’t want to take credit for something that wasn’t my idea. But I never said it outright, you know, plausible deniability and all that.”

“Well, that explains why she didn’t have her claws out when I saw her yesterday.” I kick your foot a little, purely because it’s there, not because I’m grateful or anything like that. After all, I’m Brian Kinney and can take a little animosity without needing someone else to fix it for me. It would have blown over eventually anyway.

You shrug, but seem pleased nonetheless. “I didn’t tell her anything that wasn’t true.”

There’s a small pause. I lean my head back, blow smoke rings into the air and allow you to keep your feet against the soles of mine. My feet are cold, so a little warmth is welcome.

“Brian?”

“Hhm?”

“How _would_ you go about making an anti-Stockwell TV spot?”

For a moment, I can’t believe my ears. The sheer audacity of even asking the question after what happened renders me momentarily speechless. Then I snort a laugh which is genuine amusement about anything to do with Stockwell for the first time since I started working for him. I think about padlocked backrooms, cops in the diner and hustlers dumped in dumpsters. And I don’t forget how much I hate Stockwell and his team with their ideas of a city cleared of anyone who doesn’t fit into their narrow worldview. And, of course, I still have my job so I’ve kind of forgiven you. It has nothing to do with feeling comfortable right now, more comfortable than I have in a long time.

I lift my head a little to peer at you with one eye. If you can work for Stockwell and against him at the same time, then so can I. It’s all a matter of timing. Who says you can’t have it all?

“Actually, I had an idea about that today…”

 

 

   

What started as a means to ward off possible harm from Stockwell’s campaign before it arises, has turned into the complete opposite. At first, I primarily wanted to be prepared for any negative publicity surrounding the Jason Kemp murder, so I could have a ready-made solution at hand. But now I find that the same information would be uniquely suited to derail Stockwell’s triumph at the eleventh hour.

I’m still fuming about Stockwell’s accusations against me after the GLC fiasco. Never mind that the man was partially right – I _did_ give the pointers for the protest to you to begin with – I haven’t forgotten his implication that I can’t be trusted because I’m a fag and ‘these people’ all stick together. Coupled with my long-running dislike of anyone in the Stockwell camp, not to mention the fact that they closed the backroom, I’m highly amused by the idea of making him lose the election and still look good for making him almost win. After all, even I can’t do anything about a set of TV spots which turn up in the last few days of the campaign when it’s too late to refute them, can I now?

I spend an evening with you at the dive Hunter took me to, only this time I feel a lot better about it. Witty banter and your outfit, which disguises you as a hustler, make up for the seedy atmosphere and the other customers. But ultimately it doesn’t help, because the man we’re waiting for never turns up. I don’t know why I feel slightly relieved by that until Hunter turns up at the loft, brandishing a used condom like a courtship present.

Hunter eyes you suspiciously. “Do I know you?”

You frown, then huff out a dismissive, “Hardly,” before you make your way to the fridge to get some water.

Maybe you really do have one of those faces that everybody thinks they recognize from somewhere. With your boy-next-door looks I wouldn’t be surprised if you resemble some teen idol or other. Hunter instantly ignores you and focuses on me.

I take it upon myself to drive Hunter home, trying to tune out his diatribe about how he would be so much better for me than you. His sexual experience may be more extensive than yours, but I can guarantee that he doesn’t surpass you in any area, even if that were all that matters. And then I try to tune out Michael and Ben’s lecture to Hunter for his reckless behavior. While I agree in principle and belatedly realize how much you would have been at risk if the guy had turned up, I think they could handle it better. I don’t know much about parenting but I know how not to do it.

“You were trying to impress Brian,” Michael shouts accusingly and the words kettle and black spring to mind.

“Well, he wouldn’t be the first one,” I smirk.

“He’d do a lot better with me than he would with blondie,” Hunter retorts.

That stops Michael in his tracks. “What blondie?”

“The blond hustler he’s hanging out with – Justin.”

I already regret ever mentioning your name in front of him. “He’s not a hustler. Just a guy I work with.”

“Half-naked in your loft? Oh, pleeease.”

“Brian?” Michael asks uncertainly. “I thought we talked about this?”

I chuckle at the idea that Michael telling me not to do something would actually stop me. “I needed someone young-looking to lure the guy. I would have thought you’d appreciate it if I didn’t use your foundling for that.” And then I decide to make a quick exit, hoping that Hunter’s behavior will prove more important than what I’m doing and whom I’m doing it with. But with Michael's track record on that, it’s probably wishful thinking.

The next day I go to see Carl Horvath at the precinct to give him the condom and supply the name Hunter discovered – Kenneth Reichert. Horvath takes some persuading but ultimately he’s first and foremost a homicide detective, who wants to solve cases, so he promises to look into it. He also tells me that Reichert and Stockwell were partners on the force for years. I nearly laugh out loud at that bit of useful information.

I’m already at the office door when Carl calls me back, so I turn and look at him.

“That guy you were with the other day at the diner, his name’s Justin, isn’t it?”

“Tramayne. His name’s Justin Tramayne. And I wasn’t _with_ him.”

Carl blinks. “Tramayne? Hhm. Well, at least I got the first name right. Must be getting old. It’s good to see he’s made something of himself.”

I just want to get out of the precinct, which is making my skin crawl, and you’re the very last person I want to discuss with anyone. There are already altogether too many people who make assumptions about you and me. “Yeah, he’s a peach,” I say sarcastically and walk out. Later, I will think that this was one of the few occasions I made a mistake which could have easily been avoided and might have changed everything. And all I had to do was ask a question.

 

 

 

I really don’t expect anything to come of the evidence I supplied Carl with, especially after he tells me it won’t be enough to prove that Reichert actually killed Jason Kemp, only that he had sex with him before his death. But a couple of days later he calls me to say that he confronted Reichert nonetheless. I barely have time to be surprised about that when he tells me that Reichert took his own life the very same night.

The man’s death doesn’t faze me beyond the immediate consequences. It’s such an admission of guilt that I don’t think much about it. How much sympathy am I supposed to feel with a murderer? You and I tweak the anti-Stockwell ad to include Reichert’s death, which only makes it more powerful. Simultaneously, I encourage Stockwell to attend his former partner’s funeral, but I have a feeling that Stockwell would have done that anyway. If it ever comes out that Reichert killed Kemp, Stockwell’s allegiance to the very end will weigh heavily against him. I just mention that not attending his friend’s funeral would make Stockwell look callous in the eyes of the voters.

For a while you and I speculate whether Stockwell knew about the murder. You’re spinning theories about Reichert being in love with Stockwell and killing himself to spare him the scandal. You never fail to amuse me. I just think that Reichert was a coward. And I know now that there must have been a cover-up after the fact. But Stockwell would probably have done that even if all he knew was that Reichert had sex with Kemp before he was murdered. I wonder how Stockwell felt about that, given his strong homophobia. There’s no way Stockwell is a closeted queer, like you jokingly suggest. I would have seen the signs by now.

The closer the election draws, the more I appreciate that you’re around and working against Stockwell. I simply don’t want the guy to win. Stockwell is everything my friends complained about from the beginning. It isn’t that I didn’t know that, it’s just that I’m no longer convinced that it’ll all blow over after the election. In fact, it might even get worse. I was blinded by my own dreams and wonder what I would do if I had to make a choice between helping Stockwell win and going to New York or making him lose and staying in Pittsburgh. At the moment I’m still hoping to be able to combine a narrow defeat with New York.

“We need a catchy acronym for the anti-Stockwell ad so that we don’t confuse it with the proper one,” you suggest one night. Having partaken in a couple of joints, you’re upside down on the couch with your legs over the back and your head hanging over the seat cushion.

It’s true that it’s tedious having to clarify every time whether we’re talking about the TV spots we produced for Stockwell or the ones we produced against him. I pass you the toke from my supine position on the rug. “ASS? As in anti-Stockwell spot?”

You giggle so hard you have trouble staying on the couch. I rescue the toke before it drops onto the hardwood floor and leaves a mark or sets the rug on fire.

“I got it,” you say, a little breathless from your happy fit. “S… T… D.” You pause dramatically between each of the letters.

“Huh?” Yeah, weed doesn’t exactly make me eloquent.

I have to wait for another fit of the giggles to pass before you can clarify. “Stockwell’s terrible downfall.”

“That’s indeed terrible.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is awesome.” You try to slap me with the back of your hand but only succeed in falling on top of me, all warm and soft and pliant. Then you kiss me and STD suddenly seems like a great idea, as does fucking you on the floor.

 

 

 

The biggest problem we have with the STD – _Christ, what a name_ – is money. We need about a hundred thousand dollars to place the ad we’ve created. The airtime’s been reserved but hasn’t been paid for yet. It’s obvious to me that you won’t be able to contribute any money to it. I only have to think about the way you live to know that. The shabby furniture and the TV from the last century in your apartment say it all.

“How come you guys don’t have any money?”

“Uhm… What do you mean?”

“Well, Ethan’s father’s one of the wealthiest men in the city, if not the state, and you guys live as if you’re just one step removed from trailer trash.”

“Gee, thanks for that.” You look a little indignant.

“You know what I mean. How come you’re not rolling in it?”

“Mr. Goldstein believes that money should be earned, not given away. So he doesn’t give Ethan any more than he would get in state assistance.”

“That’s harsh.”

You shrug unconcernedly and concentrate on your laptop.

“But he lets Ethan, or rather you, handle his money? Isn’t he worried that Ethan might go on the run with it?”

Your head comes up sharply and you stare at me with wide eyes. “He doesn’t know about me,” you say finally, your voice even. “Ethan’s really useless with this stuff, so he lets me act as his agent.”

I bite down the remark that Ethan seems to be useless at just about everything. “So Goldstein doesn’t know about you? How come he supports Stockwell when his own son’s gay?”

“Like I said, he doesn’t know about me.”

I wonder why Ethan doesn’t tell his father he’s gay if he’s not financially dependent on him anyway. It might stop his old man from supporting a homophobic prick. But then again, I didn’t tell my own father until shortly before his death and I’ve yet to tell my mother. So, who am I to judge other people?

“I’m thinking about siphoning some of the money Goldstein’s giving Stockwell to pay for the STDs.”

I stare at you. “Are you crazy? You can go to prison for that.”

“Not if nobody ever finds out.”

“Jesus, Justin, that’s totally fucked.”

You look upset at my vehemence. “Sometimes you have to risk everything for what you believe in.”

“Don’t be stupid. That refers to money or your job. Stopping Stockwell isn’t worth your freedom or your life.” I’ve already been calculating how far maxing out my credit cards would get us. “Just let me handle it. I might have a way.”

“No.” You sound decisive. “I won’t let you pay for the ads. It would bankrupt you. And if it ever gets traced back to you, you would lose everything.”

“Except my freedom and my life. Let’s keep this in perspective, shall we? You’re not committing a felony for this.”

You smile softly. “I love that you’re worried about me. But contrary to what you might think, you don’t actually get to tell me what to do.”

I’m well aware that the only way I can stop you is informing Goldstein or the authorities and that would lead to the exact same outcome I’m trying to prevent. I get up from behind my desk and move over to sit next to you on the couch. You’re watching me with solemn eyes. There isn’t much of the usual cheeky and confident young man in you. You look more like a stubborn child.

“You’re good at your job,” I say, pulling you close. “You have a brilliant career ahead of you. Let’s face it, in the long run, Deekins and all the others are only marginally better. They’re just not so obvious about how much they despise us. Don’t fuck up your life over politics.”

“You have no idea how fucked up my life already is,” you mutter, clutching at my shirt as if you’re trying to get closer, when you’re practically sitting in my lap already.

“But you can sort it out. You can’t do that if you’re in prison.” I’m surprised how much that thought bothers me. You’re just the type of person who would do something incredibly stupid for your ideals. Over time I’ve become a little protective of you. It must be because you look so damned young, or maybe the fact that we’ve been fucking for so long has eroded my usual don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. I wonder what it’ll be like when this is all over and you won’t be working with me any longer. There are only two weeks to go. It’s an unsettling thought.

You seem to pick up on my strange mood, because you start kissing me languidly. Even the way you take off my clothes is slow and deliberate and interspersed with kissing the skin underneath before carrying on with the next piece. I just hold still and watch you with half-closed eyes. You know my body better than anybody ever had a chance to and it makes our fucking different somehow, more intense maybe. Although I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t spectacular, even in the beginning. Eventually, I stand abruptly, making you yelp slightly when I pick you up with me and take you over to the bed.

 

****** _JJJJJJ******_

 

Daphne’s footfalls sound slow and laborious, like she has to drag herself up the stairs with her last willpower. I feel guilty that she has to work so hard. No matter how temporary it is, there’s no denying that she’s the only one bringing in money at the moment, working herself to the bone in the process by taking every available shift at the hospital. She may enjoy nursing but nobody enjoys being this exhausted.

She doesn’t see me for a moment as she rounds the corner and takes the last flight up to our apartment, then she looks up at me and her face lights up. I hope that this will never change, this pleasure we feel when we’re together. It’s warm and comfortable and makes me happy every single time. Of course, it’s nothing compared to that burning need I feel when I’m with you. Or even when I’m away from you.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you inside?” She’s reached me now and sits next to me on the top step.

I hold up my pack of cigarettes in explanation and take another drag.

“And you can’t smoke inside the apartment because….?”

“Don’t wanna disturb Ethan.”

“Like he cares about anything anymore. Or did he say something? He’d better not have.”

“Don’t know. I haven’t been in yet.”

We’re sitting in silence for a minute or two. Daphne is one of the few people I can be silent with and still be comfortable. It’s only recently that I noticed that I can do that with you as well. You have this brooding thing going on that makes you seem deep when you’re silent. I have no idea if you really are. For all I know you could be thinking about your shopping list or sex or something equally mundane when you’re quiet but somehow I don’t believe that. It just adds to how I feel about you.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, everything’s on schedule.”

“But…?”

“But nothing. Everything’s on schedule.”

“Justin.” Daphne takes my cigarette for a puff and hands it back to me. “If everything’s alright, why are you out here smoking?”

I shrug and let some more time pass. Sometimes I feel the weight of what I’ve taken on crushing me. This whole campaign and the counter-campaign is more work than I ever imagined. Plus, all the wheeling and dealing is getting to me. And then there’s you…

“I don’t know what to do, Daph.” I stub out the cigarette end on the stone step. “I’m not sure if I can do this.”

“You’ve done this dozens of times. Maybe never on such a large scale, but you’re good at it. That’s the reason you’re doing that and I’m keeping the home fires burning.” She leans her head tiredly against my shoulder. “I handed in my notice today.”

“Did you? That’s good.”

Daphne closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again before she can doze off. She’ll have to go to bed soon, so that she’ll be ready when the time comes, but I know she can’t help worrying about me. “Is it Brian?” she asks quietly.

I take a deep breath, almost a sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. I really like him. Actually, I think I love him.”

“I know. We don’t have to do this, you know. It’s not too late. Just stop.”

“What good would that do at this point? Stockwell would win the election. Brian would go to New York and I’d never see him again. If I pull out now, it wouldn’t change the outcome. And didn’t I promise you I’d earn more money? You’re working way too hard. And I’m tired of doing small jobs. This should set us up nicely. Once Stockwell pays, we can get out of here. And Ethan can get some decent physiotherapy.”

“Ethan doesn’t want physiotherapy, decent or otherwise. He wants to wallow in his misery so he can make you feel guilty enough so you won’t leave him. Christ, Justin, you were gonna leave him before the accident. Don’t you think he remembers that?”

“But if I can pay for his therapy, I won’t have to feel guilty any longer.”

Daphne’s head comes up sharply. “You’re gonna dump him? Oh my God, you just made my day. I should write Brian a thank you note.”

“I don’t think he’d appreciate that.” I smile at her ruefully. I can’t deny that no matter how guilty it makes me feel, my relationship with Ethan has run its course. I’ll help him get better and if Ethan refuses, then I’ll tell him that I’ll leave him regardless. It’s not so much your influence – you’ve never interfered in my relationship – it’s the simple fact that I met you, and that my feelings for you are so much stronger than anything I’ve ever felt before. They’re what my feelings for the guy I’m with should be like.

But for all my planning and the hard work I’ve put in, for all the time I’ve spent with you and all the sex we have, in none of my visions for the future do I see us together. Maybe if you felt the way I do, we could find a way, but even though I think – no, I _know_ – that you have feelings for me, you’re a long way from admitting that even to yourself. And an even longer way from acting on them. So I’m determined to spend as much time as possible with you for as long as I can. We’ll have to go our separate ways soon enough. But it hurts like fuck just thinking about it. It’s been a long time since I had to let something go that meant anything to me.

 

****** _BBBBBB_ ******

 

I’m surprised when you say you need to go after our fuck. It’s the weekend and you’ve been spending those with me for a while now. Naturally, I don’t say anything other than offering to drive you, but you insist on taking the bus. You say you have to see your mother. I’m never sure if that’s actually true, because it seems to be the standard reason you give whenever you leave. And it was also the reason you gave for spending those nights away from the loft when the posters went up. I doubt that your invalid mother helped you do that.

But I try not to think about it, not to think about what you do when you’re not here or whom you’re with. Or how it makes me feel. It’s just habit, like I used to feel a little off when I started college and didn’t spend every free moment of the day with Mikey any longer. At the moment, you’re around more than Michael ever was. And if you choose not to be around, that’s perfectly fine, too. We’re both free to do whatever we want.

So I’m even more surprised when you come back four hours later to spend the night. I just got ready to go to Babylon and don’t see any reason to change my plans. If anything, it’s more important now to stick to them. I don’t want to give you the impression that all you have to do is turn up and I’ll drop everything for you.

Of course, going to Babylon no longer holds the same appeal. The backroom’s still padlocked and fucking in the alleyway is no longer a real option, not if I don’t want to get arrested with all the cops crawling around. So we dance for a while and then go back to the loft. I don’t feel too badly about not being able to fuck away from home, after all, I’ve brought the best fuck I’m likely to get with me.

We have a long lie on Sunday morning and go to breakfast at the diner, which is blessedly free of law enforcement. Debbie serves us with a smirk. I’m not quite sure if that’s due to the clandestine nature of the GLC protest or because she’s imbibing our breakfast together with more meaning than it has. She certainly seems to be very fond of you.

In the afternoon, you do some stuff on your laptop. I’m idly and rather disinterestedly flicking through some magazines when I become aware that you’re getting agitated. Telling myself that it’s none of my business, I keep watching you covertly and try to decide at what point a distracting fuck is in order.

Finally, you go over to the window and pull out your cellphone.

“Hi, Ethan. It’s me. You need to call your dad’s accountant and ask him why the money hasn’t come in yet.”

There’s a longish pause, then you take a deep breath.

“I need it to pay for the ads we’re placing. And to send the rest to Stockwell. He’s expecting it to be there tomorrow morning.”

Another pause.

“No, I’m not coming home to talk you through it. Just get it done. At least call him to ask what’s going on.”

I’m no longer pretending not to eavesdrop. If it concerns Stockwell and the ads, it’s definitely my business, too. I watch you flip your phone shut and turn around to look at me. All I do is raise my eyebrows questioningly.

“The money Ethan’s dad’s giving Stockwell hasn’t come through yet. It’s tied up in trusts but it was supposed to come in this weekend. It’s supposed to get transferred to Stockwell tomorrow morning.”

I can feel my adrenaline levels starting to rise. “And this would be the money that’s supposed to pay for Stockwell’s TV campaign for the next two weeks?” I ask even though I know the answer very well.

You nod unhappily.

“The same TV campaign that will go down the river if it doesn’t get paid before midnight tonight?”

You nod again. “I’m sure it’ll be alright. Ethan’s calling his father’s accountants to find out what’s going on.”

“Do you have any idea how unprofessional that’s going to make you look?” I ask icily. “And by extension, Vangard and me?”

“You really don’t have to tell me,” you assure me. “I’m sure it will be just fine. We never had a problem before.”

“Were you ever on such a tight deadline before?”

“Well… no… but…” But nothing apparently because you seem lost for words. You look even younger when you’re flustered and biting your bottom lip.

Over time my initial misgivings over working with someone as inexperienced as you have abated in view of your obvious talent. What you lack in practical knowledge I’ve easily made up with my experience and at no point have you questioned my judgment. But now my doubts about trusting a job as big and important as this to a guy who’s basically a one man show, working from his rather ramshackle apartment, returns with a vengeance.

I curse myself for not keeping a closer eye on proceedings. I booked the times and placements for the ads myself and then left it up to you to procure payment for them. Regardless that I did this under instruction from Claudia Warner herself, if the payment falls through and there are no campaign ads, it will reflect badly on Vangard. The whole campaign will look unprofessional and I can kiss my New York dream goodbye. Nobody will care whose fault it was.

I try to remain calm while we wait. You’re pacing the loft nervously until your cellphone goes off and you nearly drop it in your eagerness to answer.

“Yes?”

…

“What? Why?”

…

“You’ve got to be kidding me. When?”

…

You let out a long string of choice expletives that rivals Debbie’s talent for them and I don’t need to wait for the end of the conversation to know that there’ll be no money. It’s pretty obvious from your reaction. Eventually you just stand there and stare at your phone as if you’re willing it to ring again and change the facts you’ve just been given. When you finally look at me, you’re close to tears.

“The money will come in tomorrow morning.”

“Fat lot of good that’s going to do,” I say, my mind already racing to find a solution.

“I know. I’ll have to call Stockwell and ask him to pay for the first lot. It’s only 20’000 and he’ll get it back tomorrow morning. And then we can pay for the rest of the ads.”

“You’ll do no such thing. It’ll make all of us look like idiots.”

“I’ll make sure he knows it was my fault. Or rather Goldstein’s faults. I’m sure Stockwell would prefer that to the ads not going out at all.”

“I’m sure he would. Now shut the fuck up, I’m thinking.”

There’s a part of me that wants to leave things as they stand. Without the ads it‘s uncertain that Stockwell will win the election. I know how brilliant they are and how they’ll sway many voters. If they don’t go out, I won’t need to find the money for the STDs we created. But that part of me, the part that balks at what’s being done to the queers, is small, like Jiminy Cricket small. A much larger part of me needs him to at least almost win. People need to see how brilliant my campaign really is, so that his sponsors will want to sign with Vangard regardless of his success or defeat. Only that way will Vangard be able to open a New York office. It’s a gamble but I rely on my own genius to pull it off.

“Give me the particulars,” I say and go over to my laptop on my desk.

You don’t move. “What are you going to do? You’re not gonna use your own money, are you?”

“Of course not. I’ll get Vangard to pay for it.”

There’s a sigh of relief, before you ask in a small voice, “Don’t you need the accountant for that?”

“I’m a partner, Justin. I can authorize payments. Now send me an email with the particulars.” I wait but you’re just looking at me unhappily, not moving. I can’t work out what’s bothering you. I’m offering to fix this for you and it’s not as if I’m going to broadcast what happened. Although Vance is definitely going to find out. That can’t be helped and you did fuck up, so you’ll have to suffer some consequences. Hopefully, this way they’ll be minimal. “Now, Justin!”

With your shoulders slumped, you walk back to the couch and busy yourself with your laptop. Shortly afterwards I receive an email from you with the relevant information. I can feel you watching me as I authorize the payment from Vangard’s accounts. It’s only for the first day of the ads, the remainder will be paid over the rest of the week. I also send an email to Charles Brookes, the senior accountant, explaining the situation in general terms. As tomorrow is the last day of the month anyway, I’ve no doubt that the account will be covered for salary payments, not to mention that Vangard will get paid by all its clients as well.

When I sit back, you’re busy on your computer. There’s a strange vibe emanating from you and I decide that it’s most likely embarrassment. Eventually, I make my way over there and sit down next to you. You close your laptop but don’t look at me.

“I’m so, so sorry,” you say finally in a thick voice.

“It’s alright,” I smirk. “No harm done. You’ll learn. And in the meantime you can make it up to me.”

“I will never be able to make this up to you,” you say as you climb into my lap, straddling me. Your arms squeeze around my neck a little too tightly and your head is buried in my shoulder.

I think I can hear a shaky sob and begin to feel very uncomfortable. I don’t like drama and I’m at a loss what to do. I can’t remember the last time someone cried on my shoulder. My friends know better. My hands stroke your back and I’m just about to mock you gently for taking this so seriously when you speak again.

“Will you miss me? I mean, when you’re in New York?”

It’s so unexpected that I have to chuckle. “I intend to never think about Pittsburgh again as soon as it disappears from my rearview mirror.” And how I wish I was still as convinced of being able to pull that off as I was not so long ago.

You nod and sniffle quietly. Then you sit up and your slightly red-rimmed eyes and desolate expression make me want to do or say something uncharacteristically tender. I settle for pulling you down slowly by the nape of your neck until our foreheads are touching. You attempt a smile with limited success. “I’m behaving like a silly faggot, aren’t I?”

I hide my relief behind a smirk. “Yeah, you do. Wanna behave like a hot fag instead?”

You laugh a little and kiss me.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

**PART  SIX**

I wake up to someone shaking my shoulder, urgently saying, “Brian. Brian, wake up.”

“Don’t you ever sleep?” I mumble, not quite awake yet and hoping for once that you’ll go back to sleep instead of wanting to fuck.

“Brian. Will you wake up for fuck’s sake?”

The voice penetrates my baffled brain enough for me to open my eyes. Bad idea. The glaring light makes me squeeze them shut again in a hurry and only open them halfway. “Mikey. What are you doing here?”

“Checking up on you. What the fuck did you take last night?” It comes out in a suppressed hiss.

“Nothing. At least, I don’t think I did.” I’m sure I didn’t take, smoke or drink anything other than one shot of JB. Which makes it all the more annoying that I apparently have the hangover from hell, with a pulsing headache, blurry vision and a hazy fog over my thought processes. I don’t even get hangovers like this when I _have_ been drinking. I’m not a hangover person. Maybe I simply forgot what I took. I do sometimes. “Why are you here?” I finally ask again because Mikey being in the loft on a Monday morning doesn’t make sense. It _is_ Monday morning, right?

“Justin called me this morning and said you weren’t feeling well last night and that he couldn’t reach you. So I came to see if you’re alright.”

“Where _is_ Justin?” I look behind me in the bed and then towards the bathroom. Didn’t you stay over? I thought you did.

“Fuck that for now. We have bigger problems. The police are here.”

“What?” I sit up a little too fast and feel dizzy in the process. When I turn my head, I can see two men standing in the middle of the loft, watching me. Shame I’m wearing underwear. I could annoy them with nudity. But that isn’t right either, because I never wear anything in bed. Shaking my head doesn’t do much to clear it.

Michael passes me some clean clothes and I get dressed gingerly. I would prefer a shower but that’s out of the question with the cops waiting for me. I just can’t work out what’s going on with me. The last thing I remember is being in bed with you. We fucked after the near-disaster with the money for the TV ads. You spoke to Daphne on your phone, we had a drink and then… what? Did we fuck some more or go out or what…?

There must be something that accounts for my condition. Maybe I picked up some bad drugs? You told Michael that I was feeling sick. So maybe I have the flu or something? I get up very carefully and follow Michael down the steps, stumbling a little on the last one, but luckily I manage to brace myself on Michael's shoulder.

“What can I do for you, officers?” My voice is sounding strange to me, kind of slurry. Michael gives me a long worried look.

“We have a warrant to seize your computers,” one of the guys says, handing me a piece of paper that I’m too befuddled to read. The letters won’t come into focus properly.

“What for?”

“We also need you to come to the station with us. We have some questions for you.”

“You’re arresting him?” Michael almost screeches, half panicked and half indignant.

He sounds more like Deb by the day. I wish he wouldn’t be so loud. It makes my head feel like it’s going to explode. “My computers are on the desk and the shelf by the wall. But the one by the wall has a virus on it, I’m only using the work one at the moment.”

One of them walks over to where I’m indicating with a vague wave of my hand and puts the computers into two separate plastic bags. Wearing plastic gloves to do it. I know I should be asking a lot of questions and demand answers right now but all I really want to do is go back to bed and sleep off this fucking hangover.

“Can you get ready to come to the station with us now?” the other guy asks, looking at me closely. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say and pivot to go and get my socks and shoes, nearly falling over in the process. Michael’s there to steady me again.

“You’re _not_ fine. He needs a doctor. He can’t go with you like this. He’s not well.” Michael is in full protection mode by the sounds of it.

I’m inclined to agree if only so that I can go back to bed. But in the end, I let Michael help me with my socks and shoes and somehow end up at the hospital, lying on a gurney in a curtained off cubicle, gradually falling asleep again, despite the circumstances and some nurse poking me with a needle.

I come to when Michael’s shaking me awake again. “Doctor’s here, Brian.”

I’m feeling a bit better after my nap and sit up a little. Through a small gap in the curtains I can see a uniformed policeman standing guard. Now that my head is a little clearer, that worries me considerably. What the fuck’s going on here?

“Mr. Kinney,” the doctor says and his serious demeanor does nothing to make me feel any better. “We’ve analyzed your blood and there are significant traces of Flunitrazepam in it. It’s a sedative, better known as Rohypnol.”

Michael stares first at the doctor, then at me with wide eyes. I just shake my head and make a helpless shrugging gesture to him. None of this makes sense to me.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” the doctor asks.

“I was in my loft. I was with… a friend of mine. We had a drink. And then…” I remember being in bed, being naked, you being naked, you being upset still, or maybe upset again after your phone call with Daphne, saying you need to go and see your mother, making a drink for both of us, me wondering again if your mother is just a convenient excuse for something else and then…

The doctor waits for a while for me to continue, then clears his throat. “Mr. Kinney, we would like to run further tests. Flunitrazepam is a strong sedative. It’s often used as a date rape drug.”

“I’m well aware of that, Doc. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“I understand that this is difficult for you but…”

“Doc. I’m a fag. I know what it feels like when something or someone’s been up my ass. There’s no point shining your torch up there, you won’t find anything.” That, at least, is a relief. I haven’t bottomed since my teens but I still know what it feels like the next day, especially for someone who isn’t used to it.

“Okay.” The doctor nods, not quite convinced by the looks of it. “I’ll have the nurse give you a leaflet, in case you change your mind. Otherwise, you can leave now. But please don’t drive for the next twenty-four hours or operate any heavy machinery. Other than that, the effects should wear off on their own pretty quickly now. If you took it last night, the dose was nowhere near strong enough for an overdose, just enough to knock you out.”

I nod and slide off the gurney onto my feet, already pulling my jacket on. Now that I’m a little clearer, I wonder where you are and what happened to you. If I was drugged, maybe you were, too. I immediately feel a hot spike of worry, but then I remember that Michael said you called him this morning. “One more question, Doc. This memory loss thing… is it possible that I went out somewhere and someone drugged me and I went home afterwards without remembering anything?”

“It causes muscle relaxation and strong sedation. You wouldn’t have been able to do much after you took it. I’d say that if you were out somewhere, someone must have taken you home. But you’d remember going there. It doesn’t cause retrograde amnesia, no memory loss of events before you took it.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

The doctor nods and pulls the curtains back, telling the cop stationed there that he can take me now. I look at Michael. “Am I under arrest?”

“No, they said they just want to talk to you. They took your computers.”

“Why?”

“How the fuck would I know? I’ve spoken to Carl and he didn’t know anything. And I’ve called Mel. She’s sending one of her colleagues to the station.”

“Do you know where Justin is?”

Michael shakes his head. “He called me this morning, saying that you were unwell yesterday and that he couldn’t contact you. He asked me to go and check on you. When I got to the loft, the cops were already outside.”

“Can you call him and see if he’s alright?” You were with me last night. You might be able to fill me in on what happened.

“Sure. What the fuck’s going on?”

“Fuck if I know. Just call Justin. See if he knows.”

I walk out of the cubicle and nod at the policeman. “Let’s get it over with.” I can only hope that it’ll be that simple.

 

 

 

At the precinct, I’m taken to an interview room but when I tell them that I won’t say anything without my lawyer, I’m left alone in there, presumably until said lawyer will arrive, which hopefully won’t be too long. I spend some time mussing my hair in the mirror-window until it’s just right and then just sit and wait. I’m no longer bone weary tired or hazy but a sense of unreality is settling over me. With nothing to do but wait, I smoke half a dozen cigarettes until all the nicotine on an empty stomach makes me a little queasy and I stop. It’s already three in the afternoon, according to my watch, which shouldn’t come as a great surprise after what I’ve been told at the hospital. My memory still goes no further than being in bed with you and I try not to jump to the obvious conclusion. You couldn’t have. You wouldn’t. Would you? What would be the point?

Eventually a middle-aged man, clutching a briefcase and studying a file, ambles into the room. He puts both down on the table and looks at me. “I’m Ralph Carson. Melanie sent me. Sorry about the wait. I was in court and then I had to read your file first. Is there something you’d like to talk to me about before the interview commences?”

“Not at all,” I grouse sarcastically. “I’ll just wing it without any clue what this is about.”

“No one told you? Well, it seems that a rather large sum of money has been removed from Vangard’s accounts.”

I’m just about to explain that when Carson continues. “And an even larger amount has gone missing from Chief Stockwell’s election campaign fund.”

“What?” Oh, fuck. I hope they’re not going to try and pin that on me. “I authorized twenty thousand dollars to be paid to various TV stations yesterday. I had to do that, otherwise we would have lost the time slots. I’m authorized to do that.”

“I’m sure you are, Mr. Kinney, but unfortunately your laptop had some spyware attached to it, which enabled the perpetrators to copy your password and authorization code as you were putting it in. They subsequently emptied Vangard’s bank account. When Stockwell paid Vangard, they managed to hack into Stockwell’s computer through the transaction and completely clean them out.”

I can’t shift the feeling that Carson finds all of this highly amusing. “Why am I a suspect? Oh let me guess, because I’m a fag and can’t be trusted.”

“I dare say that would be enough reason for Stockwell, but unfortunately for you the police managed to trace the spyware back to your laptop. So they’ll probably ask you who had access to it. We know that this program is extremely complicated. It takes a good ten minutes to upload and during that time it’s pretty difficult to disguise it as anything other than what it is. So I need a list of the people who had unsupervised access to your laptop.”

“No one. It’s a work computer. I don’t let anyone use it.” And I’m just remembering that I have a copy of the STD on there. Oh fuck! How could I have been so careless? But you and I have both been working on the ad, passing it back and forth to tweak it and… and _you_ were on my laptop. And now that I think about it, I remember a hot fuck on my desk while your program was loading – with the screen facing away from us on the edge of the desk. I close my eyes for a moment. It all fits together, your access to my laptop and the fact that the last thing I remember is you passing me a drink. I still can’t believe it. There must be another explanation.

“Well…?” Carson, who‘s been watching me, asks with a bored expression.

“Justin was on it. He loaded one of his programs onto it when his computer gave out. We were in the middle of work and didn’t want to stop.” Except for a quick fuck. “He’s a guy I work with.”

“Oh good, so there’s reasonable doubt already. Let’s get on with it, shall we? I don’t have all day.”

I want to stop him as he walks to the door to call the police officers in. He doesn’t understand. You wouldn’t have done this. In fact, someone needs to check up on you to make sure you’re okay. But I don’t say anything because by now I’m starting to realize that the really obvious explanation may in fact be the right one. As he comes back to take a seat next to me, the two guys from this morning follow him in and sit down on the other side of the table.

They introduce themselves, but I barely take in their names. Then follow various legal points about the interview being recorded and such, but they don’t read me my rights. That’s good, isn’t it? That means I haven’t been arrested. I’m just ‘helping with their inquiries’. Of course, they can change their minds about that at any point. And if they decide to arrest me, I’m conveniently already here.

The whole situation feels surreal. It’s like being in the middle of a cop show, only not so much, because there’s no underlying menace and no aggressive tone. Nobody’s invading my personal space to shout in my face to confess already. It’s just a quiet question and answer session – very civilized. And yet I can’t shift the feeling of a pervasive threat. They’re going to try and trip me up, I know it. Well, it isn’t rocket science really, it’s their job and it’s obvious that at least the older one doesn’t quite believe me.

“So you’re maintaining that… your colleague had access to your computer? Against your employment rules?”

“I’m not an employee, I’m a partner. And yes, I gave Justin access to my computer. We were under a time constraint and needed to finish our work. And Justin isn’t a colleague. He’s an outside contractor, whom your boss, Jim Stockwell, insisted on. He’s rather good, too.”

“Would this be Justin Tramayne of _Tramaphics Ltd_?”

I nod and the younger one opens the file he brought with him and slides a photograph over to me. “This is Justin Tramayne, 23, only child of Adele and Luther Tramayne. He’s a Dartmouth graduate, married, one child, originally from Pittsburgh, currently living in Boston, where he owns a graphic design company, called _Tramaphics Ltd._ ”

I stare at the picture. “That’s not Justin. For starters he’s the wrong color. Justin’s white.” I suppose I should say ‘Caucasian’ but I  really don’t have time to worry about political correctness. And with your pale skin the term fits perfectly anyway. You’re as far removed from this guy’s chocolate colored tone as they come.

“Yes, quite. The individual calling himself Justin Tramayne used the real Tramayne’s identity, so that a superficial check-up on his credentials backed him up. So far we haven’t been able to establish who he really is or if Justin is even his real name.”

“But…” I fall silent again because I have no idea what I could possibly say. “Well, I’m glad it was all Stockwell’s idea in the first place,” is all I can get out in the end.

“Yes, that’s rather fortunate for you. As is the fact that you obviously haven’t fled, that your own company was targeted as well and most of all that you were provably drugged by someone. In fact, your short stay in the hospital has given us a chance to rule you out as a suspect for the most part.”

“Yes, how fortunate,” I mutter. I’m still too stunned by the revelations to react much. It’s sinking in at a snail’s pace. All this time, I was played by a con man? Really? I’m not sure if I should be angry or embarrassed. “What about Ethan Gold?”

“Ah yes, Mr. Gold appears to be who he said he is. He’s the son of Nathaniel Goldstein. Unfortunately, his father disowned him some years ago when he found out that he’s a homosexual and they haven’t spoken since. Mr. Goldstein never intended to donate any money. Apparently he’s never heard of Chief Stockwell.”

I take another look at the photo of the real Justin Tramayne and then lift and drop my hands in a what-the-fuck gesture. I have no idea what’s going on.

Carson’s mirth is unmistakable now and he doesn’t even try to hide his amusement much during the rest of  the interview. I suppose that I would be equally amused if I didn’t feel personally betrayed. You – whatever the fuck your name is – targeted me, _me_ , personally. The great Brian Kinney worked and fucked with a con artist for months and never had the slightest suspicion. I am never going to live this down.

Some small things appear a little strange retrospectively but they’re just little gestures that seem odd in hindsight. You were very convincing. And it isn’t just me you convinced. I remember everybody in the Stockwell camp being taken with you, Debbie liked you and even Michael. You’re certainly talented.

I don’t feel any particular need to be helpful with the police. I mention the apartment you share, in case there are any witnesses who saw me there, but I don’t say anything about meeting your father or that you have an invalid mother living in Pittsburgh, nor anything about Carl or Hunter recognizing you. Let the cops work it out for themselves. I don’t owe them anything and it wouldn’t help my own situation.

When I’m released an hour and a half later, I go straight to Vangard.

Gardner is still there, trying to pick up the pieces, and he’s livid. All of Vangard’s assets have disappeared and although the agency does have insurance for that, it’ll be in dire straits for a while, with its accounts frozen during the investigation. I think it was rather considerate of you to trigger a staff salary payment before taking the rest of the money. Luckily there’s no personal liability clause in my contract and so my own money can’t be seized for compensation.

I do get fired though, for gross negligence. It’s no  more  than I expected. I think that fuck on my desk is likely to turn out the most expensive I’ve ever had or will have.

 

 

 

For a few days, I entertain myself with JB and weed at the loft. I have ample time to think about little things, which form into a larger picture with hindsight. Your cleaning habits for example. You always washed up after eating or at least switched the dishwasher on and wiped down all the surfaces. I’m sure that for all the time you spent in the loft, there won’t be a single fingerprint in the whole place. At least none that can be identified conclusively as yours. With the amount of traffic I have in my loft, most places will be full of fingerprints from virtual strangers. But the kitchen is different. And the kitchen is the one place you always meticulously cleaned.

Then there’s the fact that my private computer just happened to have a virus on it when yours broke down so that all I could offer you was my work computer. That virus was probably due to an email from you. That’s easily done nowadays.

I remember the cheap furniture in your apartment with the TV sitting straight on the floorboards for want of a shelf. Then, it looked like lack of money – which you explained neatly as vindictiveness on the part of Ethan’s father, something you must have known I would respond to. Now, it speaks of temporariness, complete with packed duffle bags in the corner for a quick getaway. Why I didn’t find it strange that the Tramaphics website named an office when you admitted to working from home, I can’t fathom now.

You said that you shared an apartment with Daphne for five years and reacted a little flustered when I asked if she’d been at Dartmouth with you. Because you’ve never been to Dartmouth, with or without Daphne, have you? Who knows if that’s even the girl’s name. Hell, who knows if you’re even called Justin.

I doubt very much that your mother lives in Pittsburgh and suffers from MS. That was just a convenient cover for whenever you wanted to leave in a hurry. You were uncomfortable talking about your sister, not because she died, like I thought, but because Justin Tramayne is not supposed to have a sister, is he? And the man we met in the supermarket parking lot? You claimed he was your father. But did you call him ‘Dad’ during that short conversation or did you just say it afterwards? I can’t quite remember.

What I can remember with perfect clarity are other things. Kissing, touching, fucking. Waking up with you plastered against my naked skin. Whispered words that weren’t quite endearments except for the soft tone in which they were uttered. Talking, listening to you lecturing me on some obscure fact or other and laughing at you and with you. All lies.

I remember that last night, too. How you got a phone call and how you obviously didn’t like what you were hearing, saying, ‘ _Already? I thought I’d have more time.’_ Was that Ethan or Daphne telling you that the deed was done? Then you poured both of us a drink and came back to bed, not answering my question what that had been about. Instead you watched me drink and said, ‘ _Please, don’t hate me,’_ in such a desolate voice that I laughed only a little. It seemed such an arbitrary and peculiar thing to say. Of course, now it makes perfect sense, except that I can’t work out why you would care how I feel. You didn’t when you destroyed my life. After you gave me that drink, I don’t remember anything.

Michael comes to the loft every day, trying to coax me to come out with him or to look for a new job, but I’m not interested, not yet. I’ve been outsmarted by a con man. That’s a blow my ego needs a while to recover from. And through it all, the loft seems incredibly quiet. Recently it felt a little more like a home but now I’m more aware than ever that I have no home, none that means anything to me. And what’s worse, now I have nowhere to go either.

Debbie visits and brings me some tuna dish, claiming it was my favorite as a kid. I dispute it half-heartedly but don’t really care one way or the other. She smokes some weed with me, commiserating with me over how nice ‘sunshine’ seemed and that at least Stockwell might not win the election now that he has no money. I doubt it. The ads are still running, so Stockwell must have found the money from somewhere.

“I can’t imagine how anybody can vote for him now,” Debbie says.

“Why not? I don’t think he’ll advertise the fact that he got robbed blind. Pretty embarrassing for a police chief.”

Debbie gives a small cackle. She’s rapidly getting high. “Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it? But I meant the new ad. The one by the concerned but truthful citizens or whatever they’re calling themselves. You know, when I first saw it, I thought it looked like something you’d come up with.”

“Concerned citizens for the truth,” I correct her automatically. “And I did.”

“I knew it,” she screeches a little too close to my ear and I pull my head away sharply.

I haven’t watched any television for a few days. Every time I see one of the ads I created for Stockwell, I feel mocked. Not only is my life in ruins, I also helped a homophobic bully win the election. Now I flick on the TV and wait for the full hour to watch one of our STDs. I stare at it in amazement and then I have to laugh, albeit slightly hysterically. What a clever little shit you are! How ironic that these ads were obviously paid for with Stockwell’s own money. I like the poetic justice of that.

But my amusement doesn’t last long. A week ago I had a well-paid job, the prospect of going to New York and a clean work record. Now I’m unemployed, unlikely to find another job in advertising and stuck in fucking Pittsburgh. Everything feels too much to take in, like I got up too fast and got dizzy. Only up is not exactly my direction right now. Still, I feel only numb. I don’t want to see anyone or even speak to anyone, so all my phone calls go to the answering machine. I can’t bear all the pitying questions about how I’m doing.

Then one evening I get a call that jars me out of my stupor. The answering machine clicks on, playing my curt message and then I hear it.

_“Brian…”_

I feel like I’ve received an electric shock. I would recognize that voice anywhere. Scrambling up from my place in front of the couch, where I was happily – or not so happily – getting drunk, I grab the phone off the hook. But I don’t speak yet. There’s a slight hiccup at the other end and then I hear your voice again, thick with tears.

_“Brian. I am so, so sorry. I wish I could take it back. But I know I can’t. But I want you to know I’m sorry. And I miss you and…”_

“Justin.”

There’s a long pause. _“Brian? Oh my god, Brian. I didn’t know you were there. Please don’t hate me. I’m sorry…”_

God, you sound even drunker than I am. “Justin – if that’s even your real name – listen to me. Are you listening?”

 _“Yes, I’m listening.”_ You sound eager.

“Pray really, _really_ hard that I’ll never find you. Because if I do, I won’t be responsible for my actions. You got that?”

There’s another hiccup sound and then I can hear a female voice in the background asking you what you’re doing. A moment later the line goes dead.

And suddenly I feel the way I should have done since all this broke loose: livid, irate, fuming with rage. You tricked me and what is more, you betrayed me and it just won’t do. Nobody does that to me. Nobody!

 

 

 

The next morning, I take a shower and get ready to see Carl at the precinct.

Carl shuts the door to his office and tells me to take a seat. He doesn’t seem particularly worried what being seen with me might do for his reputation. At the moment, I’m certainly not the most popular guy where the police are concerned. They may not have been able to pin any wrongdoing on me, but I’m pretty convinced that if I went out on Liberty Avenue, I’d be receiving special attention from the cops there from now on. Carl doesn’t seem to care about any of that, even offers me a doughnut.

“Jeez, can you get anymore clichéd?” I grouse. Then I come straight to the point. “You said you knew Justin from some years back?”

Carl nods. “Yeah. I thought his name wasn’t Tramayne, but I can’t for the life of me remember his real name. Something similar I think. His first name was definitely Justin. I caught him pick-pocketing, so I gave him a good talking to in the car. He told me some sob story about his mother and sister dying and his father turning into a psycho. He was fifteen at the time. So in the end I let him off with a warning.”

“And you don’t remember his surname?”

Carl shakes his head. “No, I’ve been racking my brain. Memory’s not what it used to be.”

“I’d say it’s pretty good. It must have been what, about eight years ago?”

“More like four. I remember because my wife was sick in hospital at the time. I was always trying to avoid having to go there, which is probably one of the reasons I took such a long time talking to him. That’s how I remember him so well. And he was unusual, well spoken and polite. And very apologetic. He was very convincing, too.”

“Yeah, that he is. Are you sure about his age?”

“Yeah, he showed me his ID and it wasn’t a fake. He was fifteen.”

That would mean that you’re nineteen now, not twenty-three as you claimed. I always thought that you looked much younger than your alleged age. It’s been bugging me all this time because you look even younger than your real age. If someone told me you’re only seventeen, I’d believe that too. I’m not sure if I should feel better because I at least picked up on _some_ thing or worse because I was duped by a _teenager_. Fuck, this is embarrassing.

It turns out that Carl isn’t helping his colleagues with their inquiries either, because he asks me not to speak to anyone about what he just told me. I just smirk at that, tell him it’s not even tempting to speak to any other policemen, like, ever again, and leave to find Hunter.

 

 

 

“Hey, dude, I knew you couldn’t stay away from me for long,” Hunter greets me when he answers the door.

“Yeah, you’re irresistible,” I snark and push him inside the apartment, closing the door behind me.

I was hoping to catch Hunter alone but when I look around, I see Ben sitting at the table with a pile of papers to grade. He looks at me with a questioning expression.

“Professor,” I say with a short nod, then turn to Hunter. “How did you know Justin when you came to the loft the other day?”

“Why do you wanna know? Who cares about that guy anyway?”

“I do. Now answer the fucking question.” And how I wish I’d asked questions before, like when Carl mentioned you. But no, I had to pretend that I didn’t give a fuck about you, more concerned about my image than anything else. Not that it did me any good. All my friends insist on treating me like I didn’t just lose my job, but also had my heart broken.

“Brian,” Ben says mildly from his place at the table. He obviously doesn’t like my tone.

“What’s in it for me?” Hunter asks with a grin.

“Hunter!” Ben’s voice is sharper now. “You don’t ask for payment when you’re dealing with friends.”

Both, Hunter and I ignore him. I pull a fifty from my pocket and hold it out, snatching it out of his reach when he tries to grab it. “Every tiny detail you can remember, got it?”

“Got it.”

Ben gets out of his seat and comes over to stand next to the two of us, either out of curiosity or because he feels Hunter needs protection. I’m pretty sure it isn’t to protect _me_. Nobody ever feels the need to protect me. Because I don’t need any. Except when I’m targeted by teenage con men.

“When I started hanging out with the guys, there was this dude there. He was a bit older than me but not much, maybe fourteen, fifteen. The other guys were all hustlers or drug dealers but he had nothing to do with any of that. He was selling fake papers. He was a brilliant pick pocket, too. I mean, you could watch him like a hawk and he’d still manage to steal from you. It was fucking awesome. But mostly he just came down when he needed someone to help him. The guys were always falling over themselves to get the job. He usually wanted someone to distract people so he could get into places. It was easy money. That’s why everyone liked him.”

“So he was a teenage con artist?” Ben asks. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I wasn’t sure. It was years ago, dude. I was a kid. And he looks different now. Not so scrawny and better clothes. Terrible haircut still. I wasn’t always around either. I was still living with my mother then.”

“Anything else?” I don’t want to think about how young Hunter must have been if you were fourteen or fifteen.

“Sometimes there was a black girl with him, but not very often. He was very protective of her. Didn’t want anyone to even speak to her. Don’t know why because the way I remember it, she had quite a mouth on her. I don’t know what else to tell you, dude. He wasn’t really part of the group, you know. And neither was I yet. I don’t think he ever hustled in his life.”

It’s said with a considerable amount of disdain, as if not hustling to survive is a flaw somehow or makes you weak. Or maybe it’s just disguised envy because his life panned out so much worse than yours. I think it’s rather lucky for you and feel an indistinct relief about that. Then I clamp down determinedly on that feeling.

“Do you know his name?”

“Uhm… Justin?”

“I meant his second name.”

Hunter looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Yeah, it’s unlikely that any of those guys ever introduce themselves or leave a calling card. I pass Hunter the money despite Ben’s disapproving frown and walk to the door. There I turn to Ben, who has followed me to see me out.

“No leads yet?” Ben asks sympathetically.

I shake my head. “None.” I hesitate a moment, then say quietly, “You’re doing a good thing for the kid,” before I slip out of the door.

 

 

 

My next stop is an internet café because neither of my laptops has been returned to me yet. It isn’t likely that I’ll get the work laptop back at all because technically it’s Vangard’s property. Although I doubt that it will ever leave the police evidence locker anyway. And my private one has a virus on it anyway, so it would be useless to me until it’s been cleaned up. Let the cops have fun with the porn on it. I’ll just have to buy myself a new one as soon as possible.

For now, I spend an hour researching company logos. I can’t quite remember the name of the company but I have a feeling it had something to do with electronics and the logo is pretty clear in my mind. Visuals always stick with me more. Eventually I come across Taylor Electronics, a smallish retailer not far from where the supermarket is.

An hour after that, I’m speaking to one of the sales assistants at Taylor Electronics about their van drivers. I’m concocting a story about how I clipped one of their vans but didn’t have time to wait for the driver to return to his vehicle. So I’m here to own up. In my story I noticed the driver when he left the van in the supermarket parking lot and give a detailed description of what I remember of the man, but the assistant shakes her head.

“Doesn’t sound like any of our drivers. But it does sound a bit like Mr. Taylor. He’s the owner.”

Of course. Carl said the name was something similar. Taylor – Tramayne, same initials. I suspected as much when I saw the company name. I breathe a silent sigh of relief and ask to speak to him.

I recognize Craig Taylor immediately and he recognizes me. I feel myself ushered into his office before I can state my business. The room is small and kind of dingy. There are photographs on his desk of a young dark-haired woman and two equally dark-haired kids. One is of a strawberry blond little girl. But there are none of you.

“What do you want?” He’s practically hissing at me.

“I want to find Justin. You’re his father, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t been his father for more than five years, since he ran away from home.”

“Ah, I see. I didn’t know there was an expiry date on fatherhood. And why would a kid of that age feel the need to run away from home?” I ask sarcastically.

“Because he was trouble. Even when he was little. He was always a pathological liar. I could see it even if nobody else could. His mother doted on him. His teachers loved him. Everyone thought he was wonderful. But he was always spinning tales. Just because he could. Making people believe the most outrageous lies. It was a game to him. Nothing more. People thought it was cute. I didn’t. He was always too smart for his own good.”

“So what happened?”

Taylor considers me for a moment, then obviously decides that the quickest way to get rid of me is to give me what I want. “My wife and daughter were killed in a car accident. Justin changed completely. He became quiet and withdrawn. Blamed me because I was driving. Then he started acting out, talking back to me, staying out late. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was stealing and doing drugs, too. Eventually he ran away. He was three days shy of his fourteenth birthday. I didn’t see him again until the other day… So what did he do?”

I shrug. “Took some money and ran. I’m trying to track him down.”

“I can’t help you there, pal. I’m the last person he would go to. Not that I particularly want to see him either. Maybe you should have been more careful before you took the little punk into your bed. But then again, people like you don’t really care as long as they’re young enough, do you?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Do you _want_ me to go out there and tell all your staff that you have a gay juvenile delinquent for a son, who ran away from home before he reached fourteen because you made his life hell?”

“I never did anything to him,” Taylor grits out.

“Of course, you didn’t. Justin just felt that sleeping rough would be preferable to a warm bed and regular meals.” I feel inexplicably outraged on your behalf by your father’s lack of care. It’s something I can relate to.

“What do you want from me? I don’t know where he is.”

“I want all the information you have. Date of birth. Social security number. Middle name if he has one. That sort of thing. And I’m looking for a girl. A friend of his. Black girl, pretty, goes by the name of Daphne.”

Taylor sits back in his chair. “Daphne Chanders? Wow, I didn’t think he’d still be with her.”

“Let me guess, best friends since kindergarten?”

“Oh yes. They practically lived at each others’ houses, well Daphne lived more round ours than the other way round. She disappeared the same time as Justin. Her parents were frantic. Blamed Justin – and me by extension. The police thought they were playing Romeo and Juliet, which was stupid because I would have been happy for him to have a girlfriend even at that age. Anything’s better than… anyway, Daphne never turned up again either. Quite frankly, until I saw Justin the other day, I thought they were both dead.”

“And wouldn’t that have been so much more convenient for you.”

Taylor glares at me, then writes something down and passes me a sheet with a date of birth, the hospital you were born in, the day you disappeared and your social security number. I give it a cursory glance and hand it back. “I need the Chanders’ address.”

Taylor frowns and writes that down as well. “I don’t even know if they’re still living there.”

“They are,” I say with confidence. “If their daughter disappeared, they’ll stay there forever, in case she comes back. They wouldn’t risk moving.”

“I did,” Taylor says, handing me the paper.

I nod and get up. “Yeah, you would.”

I decide to go home for the night. I don’t want to turn up at the Chanders’ house with the news I have when it’s already getting late. I also think that it might be better to talk to Mrs. Chanders alone. She might be more amenable to giving me information than her husband. But when I get there the next morning, there’s no answer.

Sitting in the corvette, waiting for someone to come home, I have to reluctantly agree with you that the car isn’t very practical. It gets cold very quickly because the heater is old and inadequate and there isn’t much room to stretch. So I decide to go to the nearest Starbucks for an hour.

The information I got so far is interesting but not very useful for my purposes. It gives me a better picture of you but not much else. I wonder what made you run away from home in the end. Jack gave me some thorough beatings in my life, but I never seriously contemplated running away. Where would I have gone? At least at home I knew what I had and how to avoid getting hurt for the most part.  Out on the streets, there’s no guarantee of that. Just look at Hunter or Jason Kemp.

But you decided that it was preferable to staying with your father. You were either very brave or very foolish. Or both. Quite frankly, your father doesn’t seem that bad to me. Callous, yes, and I suspect he’s homophobic enough to have made your life hell, but he doesn’t seem the violent type. Then again, you never know. We always seemed a respectable, church going family and look what went on behind closed doors in our house. You might have had a very valid reason to leave.

And somehow you managed to keep your head above water out there and Daphne’s, too. It seems that some of the things you told me were actually true. Your sister did die when she was little. You shared an apartment, or at least some kind of lodgings, with Daphne for the past few years. It’s strange that the truths you told always sounded like lies and the lies like truths. Or maybe the truths were slip-ups, things you didn’t mean to reveal.

When I return to the house, Mrs. Chanders has just got back from shopping. I introduce myself, and as soon as I mention that I’m looking for Daphne, I’m pulled into the house by her frantic mother, who demands to know who I am and what I know with a trembling voice. It turns into an hour I’d rather forget.

I try to imagine what it would be like if Gus disappeared without a trace one day, but it doesn’t bear thinking about, so I stop. She tells me how every time the phone rings or every time there’s a knock on the door, she wonders if it’s Daphne. Or maybe the police coming to tell her that she’s been found, that she’s dead. It’s every parents’ nightmare and I know I’ll be visiting my son later on. And be grateful that I can.

When I say I’ve seen Daphne and you, Mrs. Chanders bursts into tears and never really stops for the remainder of my visit. There’s no easy way to tell her that her daughter is caught up in a major theft but that doesn’t seem to bother her much. All she wants to do is find her. Unfortunately, I can’t help her much with that.

It turns out that Mr. Chanders, who passed away two years ago, resembled my own father in many ways. Although it’s not said outright, it sounds like beatings were the norm rather than the exception for both mother and daughter. It’s no wonder that Daphne preferred the Taylor house to her own. Maybe your running away has as much to do with your best friend’s home life as your own. Now, _that_ I can understand. If Michael had been the one getting the beatings, I wouldn’t have stood idly by either.

But ultimately none of that gets me anywhere. Mrs. Chanders hasn’t heard from her daughter in five years and hasn’t managed to find her in all that time. So I’m no further in my search. I just know one thing for certain and that is that I won’t stop until I find you. Because if I don’t, this will eat me alive.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

**PART  SEVEN**

The car windows are wide open in the warm weather, which is just as well since I’m smoking way too much. On the floor on the passenger side there are two empty coffee containers and I’m drinking from the third. It’s not my car, so I don’t care about the state of it. I’ve never been to California before and this seems like one hell of a reason to finally make it out here. Under different circumstances, I reckon I would enjoy the weather and the people. The guys especially.

At the moment I’m only interested in one guy. I watch you walk up the road in your typical half stomping, half speed-walking gait. You’re wearing a security guard’s uniform, the sleeves rolled up as a concession to the heat, and there’s a torch and a gun on your belt. It all looks very professional. Your hair’s shorter and from my position, slumped down a little in the car seat, I can see that you’ve acquired quite a suntan over the last three months. It makes you look different from how I remember you, always bundled up in layers of clothing against the Pittsburgh winter.

I feel a little sick when I think what I’m about to do. That’s the reason I’ve been hesitating so far. My cellphone has taken up residence in my hand and my fingers have skimmed more than once over the buttons, ready to call the police. That’s what I came here for, isn’t it? To confront you, to tell you what a motherfucking piece of shit you are and then watch you being taken into custody. I wanted to make sure that you know that it’s me who got you arrested, wanted to see your face when the cops handcuff you. I imagined it all to be very satisfying when I was still in Pittsburgh.

The last three months have been hell. I still haven’t found a new job and I know that if I do, it will be at a vastly reduced salary and outside Pittsburgh. Much as I always wanted to get away from it, moving to somewhere like Scranton wasn’t what I had in mind. But none of the big agencies will sign an executive who caused his client to be defrauded of all his money. Cynthia wants me to open my own agency but at the moment I can’t provide the focus that would require.

It didn’t help that Michael took off in my car for a few weeks, trying to save the littlest hustler from a fate worse than death – having to live with his mother. Debbie was frantic with worry, despite his phone calls every other day, and she decided to mother me instead. At least I got fed regularly even though it meant putting up with her for an hour or two every day. It suited me that she was so preoccupied, talking mainly about Mikey, sparsely interspersed with consoling words about my situation. I really didn’t want to talk about you. On top of that, Lindsay was at the loft frequently as well and since I had nothing better to do, I spent more time with Gus in the last few weeks than in the previous two years together.

But none of that has had the power to distract me. All I can think about is what happened. I’m angry. With Stockwell for forcing you on me in the first place – well, he lost the election and is getting indicted for his conduct in the Jason Kemp case, which is more than I’d hoped for, so it’s all good. And Debbie is happy that Dumpster Boy finally got the justice she’s been seeking.

More than with Stockwell, I’m angry with you for deceiving me for such a long time. I realize that you were running a long con on all of us. I assume your main target was Stockwell since you cleared him out completely. From Vanguard you only took some of the assets. It seems that you’ve shied away from destroying Vangard completely because once you were in the system, you could have taken money from all of the agency’s clients, but you didn’t.

It’s not even the money that’s bothering me. If I was still working at Vangard, we’d be able to recover with just a few hiccups and since I was fired, I really don’t care what happens to the agency. No, it’s the personal nature of your betrayal that bothers me. All my life I’ve been a pessimist, expecting only the worst from people. It has saved me from a lot of disappointment in my life. But with you it was different. I trusted you on a level so personal that I don’t even want to think about it.

Over the time we spent together, you moved from being someone I was forced to work and spend time with, to a pleasant convenience and then to being a friend. A friend with benefits even, someone I cared and felt protective about. That’s rare for me. I haven’t made any real new friends since college – Emmett and Ted have always been mostly Michael's friends.

Yet you breathed into my life and by insisting on being familiar, you became just that. I remember how you laughed off my objection when you let yourself into my loft without knocking after just a few days. You just wiggled your eyebrows and said, ‘I didn’t want you to have to answer the door in case you were in the middle of something – or someone.’ You rummaged around in my kitchen in a way that even Michael doesn’t, looking for food and even storing snacks for yourself. You showered me with attention and apparent affection and you never let up. And like an idiot I got used to it, then came to anticipate and enjoy it. I let my guard down. I can’t believe I was that stupid.

So I’m mostly angry with myself. For trusting you, for not paying closer attention, for letting you get close. And every time I wake up from dreaming about you, about fucking you, about seeing you again, about you having an explanation that makes all of this alright somehow, like it does in dreams, I loathe myself a little more for being weak.

Did you target me because I’m gay? If Vance had been looking after the Stockwell account, would you have sent your little friend to do the dirty work? Did fucking you blinker me to what you were up to? Did you fuck me only because of that? Was everything just a sham? Because if it was, I must say I’m impressed by how sincere you seemed. It was more than just the frequent sex. Everything you did gave the impression that you cared about me. So much so that it made me uncomfortable at times. It was there in every word, every look and every touch.

I feel like such a moron. I thought you were in love with me. I don’t even believe in love, not the everlasting romantic kind, but I know that some people feel it, or think they do. Michael, Lindsay, even random tricks sometimes, show me affection. I thought you were just like them. And I even worried about you. How you’d feel when I left for New York. Hell, I even wondered how I would feel when I left. Well, know we know. You don’t feel anything at all and I… I spent the last few weeks alternating between seething rage and deep disappointment. And what I really hate is that sometimes I just want to talk to you; that, if someone else had done this to me, this would be so much easier to bear because you would still be around. Can this get any more fucked-up?

I don’t think the police have given up on finding you but they’re not making much headway. When the super from your apartment building told them that you own a car, they concentrated on that, only to find it abandoned on a derelict industrial site on the outskirts of Pittsburgh two weeks later, stripped down to a mere hull by then. It was just another red herring you left behind. You concealed having a car from everybody, so that the police assumed it had more significance than it did in the end. Your mind works in really intricate ways and I’m wondering if the police even know your real name yet.

Since I didn’t know that you even had a car, I concentrated on bus depots and train stations. With the help of Paul Alvarez, the private detective who helped me during my trouble with Kip Thomas, I eventually worked out your destination. Well, Hunter helped, too. It’s amazing how much more information is forthcoming from the guys who loiter around these places when one of their own talks to them. I’m sure the money I was willing to shell out for information did no harm either.

Still, it took Alvarez a good two months to find you here. He worked on a hunch from me and concentrated on places which offer physiotherapy. Ethan wasn’t difficult to spot, but it still took a while until he finally led Alvarez to you. It seems that you’ve decided to keep contact to a minimum. Smart move, although Daphne still lives with you. I saw her this morning, leaving the house, also sporting a new haircut, a bob with golden highlights. She’s almost unrecognizable with straight hair.

After you enter the house, I wait nearly an hour before I get out of the car and walk up to the front door. There I hesitate. It seems weird to just walk into a strange house without knocking. On the other hand, you might flee if you see me standing here and under the circumstances good manners seem overrated.

The door swings open noiselessly when I turn the knob. There’s the sound of the ocean, which tells me that the backdoor must be open and I grimace a little. I really don’t feel like having to give chase. Maybe I shouldn’t have told Alvarez to go back to Pittsburgh. On television, people always approach houses from the front and back. It makes a lot of sense to me right now.

The house is not too large, conceivably the right price range for a security guard, even though you could buy something far more stylish with the money you have now. Why are you even working? You can’t have spent all of it so quickly. And how did you manage to get work as a security guard? Although that question has the easiest answer. I know better than anyone how convincing you can be.

The hallway has five doors leading off it. I walk on and look into the first room. The kitchen. Warm yellow and orange tones, highlighted with splashes of blue. I can see you with your back to me, preparing coffee from a percolator. Your wet hair and the fact that you’re now only wearing shorts speak of a recent shower.

“What took you so long?” you say and turn around, brandishing two coffee mugs, which you set down on the kitchen island that separates us, and smiling at me. “Would you like some coffee?”

I stare at you, noticing absently how the shorter hair makes you look slightly older, how the suntan blends in nicely with the blond, giving you almost a golden hue and how wide your smile is. But none of that is important now. “You _knew_ I was there?”

“You’ve been staking out my house since yesterday. What kind of a fugitive would I be if I didn’t notice these things?”

“Why the fuck didn’t you run?” It comes out exasperated and a little desperate. I realize that it sounds exactly like I feel, that maybe I would have preferred it if you’d actually done that.

“Because I was hoping you’d find me, so running away kind of defeats the purpose.”

“You _want_ to get arrested?”

You chuckle. “If you were going to call the cops, you would have done it already. And you did kind of promise me that you’d hunt me down.”

“You think this is funny?” I’m incensed. “Is everything a joke to you? Do you know what you did to me?”

Your smile dies instantly. “I made sure that you didn’t come under suspicion. You know that’s the reason I drugged you, right? And I removed all the STDs from your laptop so that they couldn’t prove that you ever did anything against him. And I took money from Vangard because you would never target your own agency. But I assume that, since you’re here, you lost your job anyway?”

“Yes, I lost my job. And my reputation. And any chance of ever getting another job in advertising.”

“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re the victim. Or one of them anyway.”

I glare at you. That’s the worst about it really, isn’t it? That I’m the _victim_. I promised myself that I’d never be one again after I left home. Not ever. Neither in my job, nor with people, always in charge, always on top, always calling the shots. And then you came along and now I’m just that, the victim, in every sense of the word.

“Yeah, well. Nobody cares about that. I make a good scapegoat. I thought you were so good at predicting possible outcomes?”

You move slowly around the kitchen island to stand next to me. From up close I can feel the heat coming off you and you smell of sun, sand and the sea. Your newly acquired tan makes you look like you belong here. You’re practically radiating sunshine. Debbie had the right idea the first time she saw you.

“It would be stupid to say I’m sorry because it wouldn’t change anything. And it wouldn’t make you feel any better and it probably wouldn’t even make me feel any better. But you know that I am, right?”

“Do I? Because I don’t know you at all. I didn’t even know your real name or your age or anything else about you.”

You smile. “Justin Taylor, pleased to meet you.” You hold out your hand.

“Fuck off,” I say coldly. “Cute doesn’t work with me. Try one of your other tactics. Maybe dirty talk. You’re good at that. Or why don’t you try and get me to fuck you as a distraction? You’re good at that, too. Whoring yourself to achieve your goals. And then you could drug me and get away.”

You look sorrowful and sigh a little, but I don’t let that affect me. “Just answer me one question. Did you target me deliberately because I’m gay? Because you were hoping that all the fucking would addle my brain too much to pay attention?”

“I…” You sigh again, scratch behind your ear and then take a step closer. I step back and you stop, looking crestfallen. “You were never the target. It was always Stockwell. But I couldn’t get to Stockwell through his campaign team. It had to be through someone who was more on the outside of it. In the beginning, I thought anybody who worked for Stockwell would be fair game. But you wouldn’t believe how often I was on the verge of bailing out because of you.”

Strangely the idea that my fucked-up life is simply collateral damage makes me angrier, not less so. But you aren’t finished.

“I fell for you, Brian. I know you don’t believe in love but I’m in love with you. If you’d given me the slightest indication that we might have a future together, I would have stopped and tried to make a go of it.”

I huff. “So now it’s all my fault for not wanting to play house with you? I think you just made my point about love very eloquently.”

“No, of course it’s not your fault. I just got in too deep. Now, all I can think about is you.”

“Right. You’re so madly in love with me that you just had to fuck up my life. Save it, Justin. You and your boyfriend can go to hell. And take your girlfriend with you. Or better still, go to prison where you belong.”

“Ethan’s not my boyfriend. He wasn’t really my boyfriend when you and I were together. I didn’t even like him anymore at that point. I just felt too guilty to finish with him. I never really loved him. I love _you_ , Brian.”

I snort a mirthless laugh and pull out my cellphone. “Tell it to the cops. And we were never _together_.” But somehow my fingers won’t push the numbers.

I look up when the light changes as someone steps into the kitchen doorway. Ethan looks outraged.

“It’s good to know where I stand,” he snarls at you, then he disappears towards the back of the house and you frown after him.

I wonder for a moment how much you fucked him over. You were practically living at the loft while you still pretended to be his boyfriend. I always told myself that it was none of my business. I really didn’t want to know. So, is Ethan another one of your victims? Did you target him because of who his father is, to make your story more believable? Surely with your talent, you could have made any scenario credible. It wasn’t necessary to do that to him. But that’s not how you work. It wasn’t necessary to pretend to be in love with me either and you still did. Do you do these things just to be on the safe side?

Still, I don’t feel much sympathy for Ethan. There’s just something about him that makes me dislike him intensely. He looks like an arrogant little snob with an inflated sense of entitlement. I wait for you to follow him, but you remain where you are and look at me beseechingly. Where was I? Ah yes, I was going to call the cops. But I’m still hesitating, trying to imagine you in prison. With your looks and your youth, you’ll never survive, no matter how much of a smooth talker you are. It’s a wonder you survived out on the streets.

I turn back to the doorway when Ethan returns and freeze completely. He’s holding what I can only assume to be your gun. I’ve never seen a real gun before, at least not unholstered, never mind when it’s pointed at me. This one’s huge. I’ve never considered myself a hero – too realistic, too selfish – so I make sure I stay very still.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you say, turning towards the door. “Are you crazy? Put the gun down. You don’t even know how to use that.”

“Everything was alright before _he_ came along,” Ethan says desperately. He’s gesticulating towards me with the gun and I hope like fuck that the safety is on. I can see myself getting hit by a stray bullet just because of this guy’s ineptness. My mouth is dry and I can’t seem to move, neither towards Ethan nor away from him. Fuck, I’ve never been so scared in my life.

You seem to have no such problem. “Put it down.” You take a step towards him as if the gun doesn’t concern you much. “You’re behaving like an idiot. You’re not going to shoot me.”

You may know Ethan a lot better than I do, but I don’t think this is the right approach. I have a pretty good track record of assessing people on the fly – very useful when going off with random tricks – and it’s obvious to me that this guy’s not in his right mind. It’s all there in his wild stare, clenched jaw and white-knuckled fingers. Maybe you can’t see it because of your familiarity or maybe you think you can talk him off the ledge. Maybe you could, but not taking him seriously isn’t the way.

“I’ve no intention of shooting _you_ ,” Ethan grits out. The barrel of the gun, which has dropped slightly, comes up again, pointing straight at me and the only reason I manage to move is because you do.

“ _No!_ ” You sound more desperate than Ethan looks and step sideways in front of me. Maybe you really believe that he would never harm you, or maybe your inflated ego makes you think you’re bulletproof, but you actually try to shield me from the gun.

I feel your ‘no’ echoed by one of my own in my head. All I can think of at this very moment is you and that I can’t let any harm come to you. So I grab you by the shoulders to push you sideways, out of the way. At least that’s what I’m trying to do but the gun goes off before I succeed and I suddenly feel as if everything has gone into slow motion.

A gunshot in a small confined space is nothing like it’s on TV. It’s extremely noisy. My ears are ringing loudly enough to drown out all other sounds. Ethan looks strangely surprised as if he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger or he hadn’t really meant to do it after all. I see shock register on his face before he drops the weapon and runs off towards the back of the house and I half expect to get hit as the gun hits the floor. But it just skitters a few inches and comes to rest there, looking like a harmless piece of metal, now that it’s no longer in someone’s hand. I hate guns, always have.

Nothing’s quite real at the moment because there’s no sound. I can’t hear the gun hitting the floor, so I have to watch it until it comes to a stop to be sure it hasn’t gone off again. Because Ethan soundlessly disappears from view, I keep my eyes on the doorway in case he decides to come back and finish what he’s started. If I don’t look that way, I wouldn’t find out until it’s too late and that’s incredibly worrying under the circumstances. I should go and retrieve the gun, just to be safe.

But I’m holding you in my arms because you kind of staggered backwards into me when the shot rang out. At first I think you were just surprised by the noise – it certainly made me jump – but then you feel a little heavy, sagging not with relief but weakness. My hand, which instinctively grabbed on to you when you moved against me, feels warm and wet all of a sudden.

“No, no, no, no, no,  don’t do this.” I can hear my own voice now, if nothing else yet, but it’s muffled, contained in my skull, like I’m under water. Your weight on me increases to such an extent that I’m aware I’m holding you up. Gently, I lower you down onto the floor so I can take a look at you. Your eyes are wide and I can see your breathing going staccato. You look like you’re going into shock.

“Justin!” It’s instinctive and useless, because you can hear me no more than I can hear anything. Blood is welling out of your upper arm and pooling on the floor. I look for other sources of bleeding but it seems to be the only one. For a moment, I don’t know what to do, then instinct kicks in and I grab a dishtowel which is hanging over the side of the kitchen island and wrap it tightly around your arm. For some reason it strikes me how your soft blond hairs contrast with your tan. Your eyes are still on me, wide and incredulous.

My phone has fallen to the floor unnoticed at some stage and I grab it to call an ambulance. The dish towel is already starting to soak through a little. But then I realize that I can’t call anyone because I can’t hear anything except the ringing in my ears. I need to go outside and find someone to make the call for me, maybe knock on some neighbor’s door. Your other arm comes up and grabs my wrist as I’m trying to get up.

“No. No hospital… please.” I can lip-read that much, but not what comes after that.

“You’ve been fucking shot, Justin. I’m getting an ambulance.” But your hand on me is like a vise and I don’t like the idea of having to pry it off or the thought of leaving you alone here to find help. You’re frantically talking to me but I can’t hear a thing. You gesture to your own cell phone on the kitchen table.

I’m not doing this. You’ve been shot. You’re bleeding like fuck. You may die. There’s no way I’m not getting an ambulance. I can’t let you die. I don’t want you to die. I can’t lose you. But if I call an ambulance…

I reach over to the table and hand you your cellphone. You need medical attention and fast, but I’m willing to give you a moment to see what you’re planning. I hope you know what you’re doing because I sure as fuck don’t and I’m not sitting here watching you die, no matter what you say. You hold up the phone to show me what you’re doing and I can see that you’re contacting Daphne. What good is your girlfriend going to do in a situation like this?

My ears are ringing a little less now which, I suppose, is a good sign. At least I’m not permanently deaf. I put some pressure on your wound and you flinch and grimace in pain. My eyes keep straying to the door so we don’t get any nasty surprises. Not being able to rely on my hearing is disorienting and in this situation it’s scary as fuck, too.

When Daphne steps into the room, my adrenaline spikes because for a moment I think Ethan has come back and I _still_ haven’t picked up the fucking gun. But the girl is unmistakable really, all bright clothes and a huge grin as she’s talking to someone on her phone. Then her face turns to surprise and shock, first at seeing me, then when she looks at you. The cardboard box she’s holding crashes to the floor. A pizza tumbles out and lands face down.

I can just about make out her, “Oh my God, Justin…” by lip-reading and then she’s by your side in a heartbeat, looking at your injured arm and then prodding you all over for more injuries. She’s talking nonstop and finally looks at me impatiently. I point at my ears and shake my head in a pretty much universal gesture of ‘I can’t hear you’.

“First aid kit,” she says in an exaggerated fashion, waiting for me to nod. “Bathroom.”

I nod again and get up. It’s a relief to have something useful to do. On the way out of the kitchen, I push the gun under one of the cupboards with my foot. It doesn’t look so huge anymore but I suppose it doesn’t have to be to cause damage. I have to guess which room the bathroom is and then have to rummage through the cabinets until I find what I’m looking for under the sink. When I get back, Daphne has lifted the dish towel a little and is inspecting your wound. You look way too ashen under your suntan for my liking.

“Help me,” she mouths at me and gestures for you to get up. I nod again and half lift you off the floor into a standing position, where you hang heavily on me as we follow Daphne to the bedroom. You close your eyes when I lower you onto the mattress.

The first aid kit is the most extensive I’ve ever seen. That’s shouldn’t be any great surprise. It’s designed for people who have to avoid hospitals. Daphne starts drawing up an injection, which she then administers intravenously. She looks very professional, which is a relief when I look at the bottle and see that it’s morphine. That’s not something anybody should mess with when they don’t know what they’re doing. You open your eyes when she injects you but then you simply smile before you pass out. It gives me confidence that you trust her completely. In fact, I kind of wish she’d give me a shot as well. Passing out seems like a good option right now.

I watch her pour some fluid into the wound, which froths up a little and she prods about for a bit before sewing up the front of your arm. I feel decidedly sick now, but you don’t react at all. She gets me to hold your arm so she can get to the back of it. There’s a slightly larger wound there, which she packs with a little gauze before bandaging everything tightly.

Then she looks at me. “What. Happened?” she mouths. Or maybe she says it normally, I can’t tell, only guess.

“Ethan happened.” I suppress the urge to shout.

“ _Ethan_ shot Justin?”

I shrug and start to feel a bit shaky retrospectively. This is the most fucked-up situation I’ve ever been in and that includes being interrogated by the cops.

She points to my ears and raises her eyebrows.

“It was loud.” And if that little fucker caused any permanent hearing damage, I will hunt him down and hurt him.

She nods understandingly and smiles. Then she gestures leaving the house. Apparently she has to go somewhere or get something, but I can’t work out what she’s saying so I just nod. The ringing in my ears seems to be decreasing a little or maybe I got used to it, but it still prevents me from hearing anything other than muffled sounds. I follow her out of the room and after she leaves with a short wave of her hand, I go and lock all the doors and windows. I don’t want any nasty surprises that I can’t hear coming.

Your house is as Spartan as your apartment in Pittsburgh was. No, not Spartan, _temporary_ , complete with the packed duffle bag in the corner of your room. I move to the window and take out a cigarette, but when I flick on my Zippo, my hands are shaking so much I can barely light up.

I watch down the road for signs of danger. I can’t imagine Ethan coming back to do more damage and anyway, he was using your gun, which he left behind, so hopefully he’s now unarmed. But still, I can’t help feeling apprehensive. This situation is so far removed from my ordinary life, it’s hard to get my head around things. Geez, I want a drink. Or some really good drugs. Or preferably plenty of both.

I wonder why none of the neighbors have called the police. The bungalow is detached but not very far removed from the neighboring properties. But it’s daytime, so many people may be at work. And the fact that this is a good neighborhood might also work in our favor. How many people here would be able to identify a single gunshot as what it is? I doubt that I would be able to at home. I would put it down as a car backfiring or other unthreatening explanations. And I simply wouldn’t think twice about it.

So we’re probably safe but I can’t stop watching the road nevertheless. Part of me wants to call the cops. It’s that part of me that hates you more than I ever hated anyone before. You wormed your way into my life and then you took it and destroyed it. You shattered everything I ever believed in, starting with my self-image. And yet when I saw Ethan with the gun, all I wanted was protect you. There aren’t many people I feel that way about. Like I said, I’m no hero. Heroes are suckers who end up dead and if I’m taking a bullet for someone else, then I have to be very sure that they’re worth it to me. I can count the people in my life who are on that list on one hand. But somehow, whether I like it or not, you appear to be one of them.

I look over my shoulder at you on the bed and can’t seem to look away again. You could have died. Your left arm isn’t that far from your heart, mere inches really, and Ethan is a terrible shot. Or maybe that’s what saved you. Maybe I’m the lucky one. He was aiming for me really, wasn’t he? I think back to our first morning together when you assured me that your boyfriend wouldn’t come gunning for me. You got that spectacularly wrong, didn’t you?

There’s no doubt that you were trying to protect me. Why? If Ethan had shot me, you could have got away again. Instead you stepped in front of me just as I was going to step in front of you. Why the fuck would you do that? And why the fuck would I?

I look at you and want nothing more than to lie down next to you and hold you to reassure myself that you’re alright. It’s so pathetic I’m thoroughly disgusted with myself. But still I watch over you and I watch the road and I know that somehow I won’t call the police. For the past few weeks my anger and hatred have kept me going. All I wanted was to find you and get my revenge. And now here I am and all I feel is worry and emptiness, no anger, no hate, no nothing. I’m so incredibly tired. I just want to sleep. I haven’t had much of that for a while.

When Daphne returns to the house, she gives you another injection from a vial she’s brought with her in a small paper bag.

“Antibiotics,” she says. “Gunshot wounds get infected really easily.”

I nod in understanding before I realize that I can actually hear her. It’s still somewhat muffled but it’s something.

“Are you a doctor?”

“A nurse. Why did Ethan shoot Justin?”

“He was aiming for me. Justin just got in the way.”

“Yeah, he has a tendency to do that.”

“He makes a habit of playing human shield?”

She chuckles. “He just likes to look out for people. Hero complex or something. Are you going to call the cops on us?”

I shrug. “I thought I would. But what would be the point? It wouldn’t get me my job back. At this stage, it would only make Stockwell happy and I’ve no reason to want him happy.”

“I’m sorry you got caught up in all of this. Our lives are pretty crazy. Although this…” she gestures towards you, “is pretty extreme even for us.”

“Really? You don’t do this every day?” I’m trying to be sarcastic but it comes out more teasing than sardonic.

She bumps my shoulder a little with hers and smiles brightly. “Nah, we’re strictly white collar.”

I follow her to the back of the house, where she throws open the doors again that lead onto the beach just past the porch.

“I saw your mother.”

“You did?” She bites on her thumbnail in a gesture that’s very similar to yours when you’re nervous or upset. “How did you find her? Come to think of it, how did you find us?”

So I tell her about your father and her mother and Alvarez. And about what happened with Ethan while I’m at it. It passes the time. She didn’t know that her father was dead but she doesn’t seem too concerned about that.

“Your mother wanted me to tell you that she’s sorry. She would very much like to see you.” I don’t usually interfere in people’s lives but I promised Mrs. Chanders that if I ever see Daphne again, I’d give her the message. “Why did you run away?”

“My father,” she says with a sigh and that seems to be all that’s going to be said. And really, what more is there?

We talk about her mother for a while. I can’t tell her much because I’ve only met Mrs. Chanders once, but Daphne soaks up every little detail. She looks so wistful that it’s hard to believe she’s been living on her own for five years. I keep forgetting how damned young you both are.

“I’ve never been this far away from home,” she says finally. “You’d think one place is the same as the next if you have no real home, would you? But I miss Pittsburgh.”

“What made you come here?”

“It’s close to the border. And we have a friend here who got us this house and a job before we even got here.”

“Why’s Justin working as a security guard? Surely you have enough money.”

“It’s looks better if one of us is working. Stops the neighbors from wondering how we can afford this. That’s what we’ve always done. Only, it used to be me who had the proper job. Plus Justin’s just doing a favor for this friend of ours.”

“So you guys are going to knock over a bank next?”

To my surprise she doesn’t giggle this time. “We don’t do that, Brian. We don’t usually know the people we’re stealing from. I think they just want access to the computers.”

That’s a relief. At least, no one gets hurt that way. Well, not physically anyway.

“How is he, really?” I make a nodding gesture towards the bedroom where you’re sleeping off your morphine high.

“I think it’s okay. The bullet went through and if it doesn’t get infected, he’ll be fine. He’ll probably have a bit of a scar. Nothing more.”

“And then what?”

She shrugs. “We were planning to go to Europe. We were just hanging around for a bit.”

“For what? The cops to show up? Things to blow over?”

She looks at me for a long time, as if she thinks the answer is obvious. Well, it isn’t to me. I have no clue what goes on in her head, or yours. Then she smiles a soft smile. “I think he was waiting for you.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

**PART EIGHT**

I’ve never been away from Pittsburgh for such a long time. Michael comes to pick me up from the airport and on the way to the loft he talks about nothing but Ben, Hunter, Debbie and the baby. Apparently Melanie is now on bed rest until the end of her pregnancy. No wonder Lindsay’s mentioned a few times that they’re ‘having problems’. And it seems that Mikey was right to worry after all. Wow, that almost never happens.

The loft feels cold and smells musty. I had to let the cleaning lady go when I lost my job and there’s dust everywhere. Where does it all come from when no one’s been in here for four months? It’s nearly November already, so I feel vindicated in cranking the heating up high before I drop my suitcase in the bedroom. I’m tired and jetlagged from the long journey and yet the bed looks less than inviting. Ah well, I’ll just have to fill it with a trick or three and it’ll be just fine, just like it used to be.

Michael has put the two bags of groceries that Debbie's sent on the kitchen counter and is sitting on one of the barstools. He’s playing with my car keys and watching me closely, as he has done all the way from the airport and I know I won’t escape whatever he has to say. Taking a deep breath, I make my way down to the kitchen and take out the coffee I knew I’d find with the groceries. The coffeemaker comes to life with a gurgling sound a minute later. It’s late but I won’t be able to sleep anyway. I’m still on European time.

I light a cigarette and look at Mikey. It’s good to see him, but he’s unusually solemn, which isn’t exactly what I need right now. “Okay, out with it, Mikey. What’s up your ass?” I grin as I say it, but he doesn’t respond to the expression.

“Are you home?” he asks finally.

I look around me in an exaggerated manner. “Looks like home, smells like home, so it must, in fact… _be_ home.”

He’s still not amused. Tough audience today, although no tougher than you’ve been over the last couple of weeks. “I was worried about you. You went off to California and next thing I know you’re in Italy. What were you even doing there?”

“I took a vacation. I told you. I emailed you every week.”

“You lost your job, Brian. And your solution is to go on vacation? To Europe? For _four months_?” He’s warming up to a proper queen-out. Oh joy!

“I would definitely recommend it. You should see the Italian men. And the French.”

“I’ve seen the French,” he says dismissively. Right. I forgot that he went to Paris with David. Although he was in one of his boyfriend phases then, so he probably didn’t sample the goods. His real concern follows a second later. “Did you find Justin?”

I turn around to pour both of us some coffee. The sugar in the jar has drawn water and become lumpy. I take my time stabbing at it with a spoon until it softens enough so that I can shovel some into my cup. Passing Michael his drink, I get milk out of one of the grocery bags and think that I might as well put all the stuff in there into the cupboards while I’m at it. When I’m done with that, Mikey’s still looking at me with his puppy dog eyes, concern warring with annoyance at the delay. “Brian,” he says admonishingly with that slight whine that he sometimes has.

I take another deep breath and lean on the counter, stirring my coffee. “Yeah, I found him. He was in San Diego. Waiting for me.”

“Waiting for you,” he echoes tonelessly. Then he shakes his head in a helpless gesture. “What the fuck’s going on, Brian?”

I might as well tell him, so I start at the beginning, with finding you and you getting shot. Mikey is already wide-eyed and worried by the end of that little episode. As adventures go, it doesn’t get more exciting than that, but he’s more concerned with what happened after that, possibly because up to that point, it was all about you and what you did. I was just an innocent bystander. But then that changed and that’s not easy to explain. Fuck, I don’t even understand it myself.

 

 

 

We’re left alone – or almost alone – for two days. Daphne leaves with a wink and a grin and only comes back twice a day to check on you and administer antibiotics. She always arrives with a flurry of noise and exuberance and a grin so big it rivals yours. Once, she has a young guy in surfer shorts and a Hawaiian shirt in tow, who looks all concerned about you and takes your uniform and your gun with him when he leaves. I withdraw to the beach while he’s there. I’m not getting implicated in any more of your schemes.

The first day you sleep for the most part and I’m left contemplating when being a bystander becomes being an accomplice. Whenever that point is, I’m long past it. Even if I were still deluding myself that I’ll turn you in at some stage, by now I’d have a hard time explaining what took me so long.

I spend long periods smoking on the back porch, watching the sea, or in your bedroom, watching you sleep. I’ve seen – and had – many good-looking men in my life but you may just be the most beautiful guy I’ve ever come across. That thought and that strange feeling in my stomach whenever I look at you – or even just think about you – makes me feel like I’m suffocating. This isn’t me. I don’t ever feel like this, so many emotions all at the same time and none of them make sense. I want my anger back and the hatred I felt for you. But even when I deliberately try and think about what you did to me, I don’t feel it.

On the second morning, I wake up to you watching me. Your bed is big enough for both of us, so there was no reason for me to sleep anywhere else. And this way I could keep an eye on you. I’m not entirely certain if I wanted to look after you or make sure you don’t take off again. You probably could have, but you just lie there, your good arm folded under your head and look at me.

“I love waking up with you.” Your smile is soft, as if we’ve just woken up on the first day of our honeymoon. It’s a little disturbing. Everything about you is disturbing. First you make yourself comfortable in my life despite discouragement from me – and having a boyfriend, I may add. Then you don’t run when I catch up with you and now you pretend we’re lovers when we’re not even friends.

“Well, get used to waking up with someone else. I don’t think they have single rooms in prison.”

Your smile only turns wider. You know as well as I do that I won’t turn you in. I can’t even recall when I made that decision. Or maybe it wasn’t so much a decision as an inability to follow through. Like I told Daphne, at this point it would only benefit Stockwell, if only by giving him the satisfaction of seeing you behind bars. I’m not up for doing Stockwell any favors. But neither do I like how smug you are. It’s bad enough that Daphne always seems so inexplicably amused.

And then you start talking, I don’t even have to ask. Which is good because I wouldn’t. You start at the end, with Stockwell, telling me how he appeared on your radar when he decided to run for mayor. He seemed the type of person who was loathsome enough not to cause you any regrets if you ruined his life.

“I was doing small scale stuff until then. You know, credit card fraud, selling fake IDs… But I was thinking that we’d get caught eventually if we stayed in Pittsburgh. If you’re gonna be a con man, you should really move about a lot. I had a feeling that the cops were closing in on us.”

“You were worried about the police, so you targeted the police _chief_? That’s pretty…”

“Gutsy, right? I know.” You smile broadly, a little proud.

I was going to go with insane, but gutsy works for me, too. I shrug and nod for you to go on.

You tell me how you had the idea to use Ethan’s father’s name for your scam. I suppose if you’re lying on a grand scale, having some grains of truth in there makes it all the more believable. Nathaniel Goldstein really is Ethan’s father and their rift isn’t widely known. Ethan was keen on the idea, too, because he hates his father and hoped that some of this would backfire on him. He always resented the fact that his father cut off his cash flow. Ah well, now he has his own little fortune and no longer needs to worry about dear old daddy.

From there you go backwards to how you met Ethan two years ago when you were taking a course at PIFA – naturally under an assumed name – and he was studying the violin there. You were together until recently but it doesn’t sound like a match made in heaven.  

“It was great at first. All romantic with flowers and music and picnics on the floor. But he’s such a snob. All his friends are snobs. He thinks anyone who doesn’t listen to classical music and watches films with subtitles is a peasant. And at the same time he made ends meet by playing his violin on the streets. Not to mention that his apartment made ours look like a palace.”

Having seen the dump you lived in, I voice my doubts that that’s even possible. You smile at that.

“He was keen enough to move in with us, believe me. And when he couldn’t play anymore, I persuaded Daph to let him. It was a nightmare. They _hate_ each other. And after he cheated on me, I wasn’t terribly keen either. That’s how it happened, you know. He cheated on me. I found out and we had a fight. He was trying to hug me – as if that would help – and I pushed him away. After that I couldn’t just leave him. He moved in with us and then I thought up this grand plan to make a lot of money. I suppose, in a way, I did it so I could get rid of him without feeling guilty.”

“Well, he shot you, so I think you’re even.”

You laugh a little as if getting shot is just one of those things that can happen to anyone. “He wasn’t always like that. He used to be really ambitious and had a lot of drive. I liked that about him. Okay, so maybe he was a bit pretentious, but it was only after he broke his wrist that he changed. He just became really depressed. I mean not just I’m-depressed-because-my-favorite-TV-show-got-cancelled depressed, I mean clinically. I didn’t realize how bad it was. I was just hoping that if he could get his hand back, everything else would sort itself out. Maybe I should have insisted that he goes to a different kind of therapy.”

I don’t really care. I’m not likely to forgive him anytime soon, if ever. “Is he likely to come back?”

“Ethan? Hardly. He’ll run away. He’s a coward at heart. A little while ago, we tried to buy this new TV with a stolen credit card. He was so nervous the shop assistant caught on to us almost straight away. We were lucky, we got out of there in time.”

That sounds encouraging in a way, but I can’t say it makes me feel much better. The guy knows where you live and he didn’t seem quite sane to me. Even cowards can feel brave with a gun.

“How did you end up with a life of crime anyway?”

You go further back to explain. Starting with your childhood, which sounds a lot more idyllic than mine ever was. A nice house in the suburbs, loving parents, no money worries. And Daphne. She seems to be front and center of everything. You really have been friends since kindergarten.

But I’m already aware that Daphne’s life may have been similar to yours on the surface but was very different underneath. Your mother became aware early on that your little friend needed protection. There were frequent bruises and even a broken arm once. I know exactly how that works. I also know why Daphne always begged your mother not to take any drastic steps. I remember telling Debbie the same thing more than once.

“Then my mother and sister died.” You pause a moment and look out at the ocean through the French windows in your room before you continue. “My father and I started having problems, especially after I came out to him. And he didn’t care what happened to Daph. She’d come to our house all black and blue and then her dad would come to get her. Mom always threatened him with the authorities, so Daphne would stay with us for a while until her mother begged her to come home. Dad couldn’t care less. He made her go home every time. And then her dad started touching her and I knew we had to get away. I’d already made plans.”

There was a teacher who’d retired from your school that same year and took both of you in for a while. And that was when you started to ‘earn’ your own money. You were too young to get a proper job, so you started pick pocketing. I doubt that your mother had _that_ in mind when she bought you that magic set. Then you got caught by Carl one day.

“I was scared shitless. I thought he wanted sex at first, but he just talked to me for ages in his car. I told him some sob story. He must have thought my dad was a real psycho, not just a homophobic prick. And the tears were real. Although it was mainly fear, I think. But there’s one thing he made me aware of and that was that if I steal from someone, they might be in deep shit trouble. So I went on to credit cards and forgery. And I started targeting a different clientele. People in sharp suits and flash cars who wouldn’t miss a little money.”

“People like me, you mean.”

You have the decency to look a little embarrassed. “I suppose. But would you rather I steal from people like Michael and Debbie or people like you?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t steal at all.” Although I wouldn’t have minded what you did to Stockwell if it hadn’t involved fucking up my life. But there’s no way I’ll ever admit that. I’m not giving you any encouragement.

“We had to live,” you kind of mumble. “We lived with Mr. Austen for over a year. But he made it more and more clear that he expected some kind of payback. I probably would’ve have done it, but he was more interested in Daphne and that just wasn’t an option. But by then I had a little money put by, so I made some fake IDs and got us an apartment.”

Daphne started working as a nurse. She did some courses, pretending she was older and then, when she felt confident enough, she got herself some forged qualifications and worked as a qualified nurse. There were never any problems.

I can well believe that. Nobody ever really questioned your abilities or qualifications either. Well, I naturally assumed that Stockwell had done the relevant check-ups. I might have done some myself if you hadn’t been so talented and knowledgeable. And what would I have gotten if I had? Justin Tramayne with a degree from Dartmouth. Everything would have looked above board. You simply borrowed someone else’s identity. Really, it’s scary how easy that was.

After the two of you moved into your own apartment, you just carried on what you were doing. Small scale fraud and forgeries, talking your way into businesses and shops and lifting goods and money. But the incident with the TV made you aware that this wouldn’t work forever, not if you stayed in the same place all the time. So you started thinking bigger. And ended up with Stockwell. And me.

You talk and talk, and I listen. I’m torn between feeling sorry for what you’ve been through, admiring your guts and despising your attitude. My life hasn’t been a bed of roses either, but I persevered and made something of myself. However, nowhere in all my different emotions can I find any anger any longer. What it comes down to is that you did the only thing you could think of to save Daphne. At fourteen or fifteen years old, your options were limited. And quite frankly, I would have done the same for Mikey.

We have Chinese take-out for dinner and you question me about my friends in Pittsburgh. I find myself talking about the whole Hunter saga, which somehow ended up with Michael and Ben becoming official foster parents. And how Ted’s now in rehab and Emmett’s still hung up about the whole thing. I don’t think you ever met either one of them, but you listen with as much interest as if they were your friends, too. That’s one of the things you do, I realize now, involving yourself intimately with strangers, so they’ll trust you. I won’t fall for that again.

When it’s time to go to bed, you ask me to help you in the shower. You can’t lift your left arm so it makes sense that you need someone to wash your hair. At least, that’s what I tell myself. First I’m helping to tape some plastic wrapping over your bandage with duct tape. Who the hell has duct tape in their house? Then we both get naked and into the cubicle, which is a lot smaller than the one in the loft.

I put shampoo on your hair, massaging your scalp a little before I rinse it off, taking my time. It’s a very familiar situation for us. Watching the water run down your tanned skin, I can feel my cock react. You’ve been half-hard since you got undressed but I’ve ignored it so far. Now you press against me, rubbing in all the right places. “Brian, I…”

“Just shut up, Justin. Not a word.”

You kiss along my jawline, small fluttery kisses, then stand on your tiptoes and kiss me desperately. Part of me wants to push you away. I mean, it’s laughable how predictable this was. But I also haven’t had a fuck in three days and I’ve never been one to refuse sex when it‘s offered. So I kiss you back and because I’m worried about hurting your arm in this small space, that’s all we’re doing until the water runs cold.

In the end, we fuck all night. It was inevitable, I suppose. I never did have much resistance when it comes to you. And the situation is still so surreal, it doesn’t matter that we’re doing this again. It’s temporary. And all temporary things, even temporary mistakes, don’t count in the long run.

In the morning, Daphne comes back with coffee and bagels and a somber expression. It freaks me out because recently, bad news no longer mean inconvenience or some problem one of my friends has. No, now they might conceivably mean cops and prison or getting shot. My life has changed beyond recognition because of you. The solid foundation it once had, proved to be an illusion.

But all she says is that she wants to go back to Pittsburgh to see her mother. I think it’s a crazy idea. If I managed work out who you really are, it’s only a matter of time until the police do, too. And from there, it’s only a small step to Daphne. But she’s determined and I can see you practically melting under her pleading eyes. You’re so used to doing what’s right for her that you put up almost no resistance at all.

“Will you come to Italy?” You look heartbroken at the thought of being without her. I remember that Daphne said you were planning to go to Europe together and feel slightly disturbed at the idea. So far, I’ve carefully avoided thinking further ahead than an hour or two at a time but it’s obvious that the next time we go our separate ways will be forever. You would be stupid to ever come back.

“Of course, but I need to speak to Mom first, maybe ask her to come with me.”

“What am I gonna do without you? I can’t go back to the Pitts.” It’s not a complaint or accusation, just a sad statement. I don’t think it’s about Pittsburgh so much as about the company.

She smiles. “You don’t need me anymore, Justin. You have Brian now.”

Wait a minute. How did I get into this discussion? I’m just sitting here, smoking, sipping my coffee and minding my own business. “Excuse me?”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To be with Justin.” She’s very matter-of-fact about it.

“Hardly. I came here to get the two of you arrested. Just because I changed my mind about that, doesn’t mean I want to go on the lam with you. The only reason I’m still here is because I’ve no urgent business at home any longer. Thanks to you two, I might add.”

She’s unperturbed. “You might as well admit that you love him.”

“Daph,” you say, half pleading and half embarrassed.

“I don’t love him. Love’s for straight people and lesbians.” I watch your face fall, even though you try to hide it, and feel a little bad about that, but some other part of me rejoices that I managed to hurt you. Payback’s a bitch.

“Uh-huh,” is all Daphne says to that and gets up. Somehow she reminds me of Debbie. “I’ve booked a ticket for the day after tomorrow. When will you be leaving?”

“I’ll leave on the same day then,” you say, not looking at either her or me. She ruffles your hair a little as she walks out of the kitchen, presumably to pack.

“You’re going to Italy?”

You look up and it’s amazing how fast you’ve recovered from your despondency just a moment ago. Without hesitation, you launch into an accolade of the country, the art and the men. Your enthusiasm is contagious. I always wanted to travel more, but I never had the time for it. It’s tempting. Only, I’m not crazy enough to contemplate it.

So, how do I end up in Italy with you? I can’t rightly say. I am loath to go back to Pittsburgh. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve nothing urgent to go back to. It seems like a good idea to let some time pass. Once the scandal about what happened with Stockwell dies down, people will remember how brilliant I am at advertising and I’ll get another job. In the long run, all the agencies are in it for the money and I can make them money – I know it and they know it. It just bugs me that I don’t have much leverage to wrangle a top position and a higher salary anymore. But I’ll get there eventually. Until then I have time to spare. Italy seems like a good idea for a little while. It’s not as if I have much to lose anymore.

You buy an old car and we travel down to Mexico to fly to London from there. You've forged papers and don’t seem to worry much about getting caught. But you still insist that we pretend not to know each other on the flight. From London we travel to France and Italy.

Europe is amazing. I speak Spanish pretty well and a smattering of French and Italian, so I get by, enough not to starve or be without tricks for long. Naturally, you’re fluent in all three languages, and German, too. You tell me you have an eidetic memory. Well, that must come in handy when you spend your life spinning lies.

Within a week, we’re ensconced in a villa on the Adriatic coast. It sure is beautiful. The weather is great, the food is tasty and the beach is endless and very clean. I spend my days tanning myself by the sea and my evenings sampling the night life and the Italian men. This is more like it. Italy is full of beefy macho man, who are tall, dark and handsome. Soon I decide that coming here was one of my better, if somewhat peculiar, ideas.

The Italian men might be more my usual type but sex with you is always on the agenda. Not a day goes by where we don’t christen another surface in the villa or various places outdoors. I should be bored out of my skull by now, but somehow I’m not. You can make me hard just by looking at me in a certain way or running your fingers lightly along any part of my body as you walk past. To say that I’m surprised that my lust for you doesn’t seem to wane is an understatement.

On top of that, we spend most of our time together. After a while we’ve seen all the major cities in Italy but you have an affinity for San Marino, which is closest to where we live. It’s some kind of enclave in itself but it doesn’t seem that different from the rest of the country to me.

You’re most interested in the museums. Some I find interesting, too , like the Ferrari one or that place with the curious objects. I even go to the Modern Art museum with you, but when you spend days and days at the St Francesco, I give up. Religious art? Really? Not for me, thank you.

We always travel into town together, but I roam other places and find my own entertainment. When I look for you at the museum after a few days of spending my days alone, you’re just standing in front of this one painting, with your nose pressed to it as closely as you can without getting into trouble with the guards. There’s another guy there, middle-aged, paunchy, in a white suit and obviously native. You’re having a murmured conversation, which ceases abruptly when I approach. The other guy pretends not to know you and immediately wanders off.

“What’s going on?” I ask, watching him a little as he slowly makes his way towards the doors, looking at the odd painting on his way. With his mane of unkempt grey hair, speckled with white, he looks like the crazy artist type.

“Nothing.”

“Anything particularly interesting with this painting?” It looks like the ordinary, run-of-the-mill religious scene to me, but what do I know?

“Distinctive brush strokes,” you murmur, not taking your eyes off it at all. Any minute now, you’ll produce a magnifying glass to take an even closer look. “Little known artist but quite thought after in the right circles.”

“You planning on stealing it?”

That gets your attention. You turn to me with an undecipherable look. “Stealing art is a fool’s game. Unless you steal to order. The market’s very small.”

I was joking really but the way you say it I’m not so sure any longer. Trying to approach the matter from a different angle, I change the subject. “Who’s the guy? I didn’t know you were into bears.”

“What guy?” You look around and, fair enough, he just slipped out the door.

And now a cacophony of alarm bells is going off in my head. “Justin.”

You look chagrined. “He’s just a guy I met. We have the same interests.”

“What are those? Your ass?”

“Ewww. I hope not.”

So do I. I wouldn’t touch that guy with ten foot pole. But the fact remains that he scarpered when I turned up and you were pretending not to know him at first. Something doesn’t add up here.

“What are you up to?”

You take a deep breath and smile. “I want to paint something. In the old style.”

“I would feel better if that didn’t involve you coming here for days on end like you’re casing the joint.”

Your smile becomes wider. “I promise you I won’t steal anything. I’m done with that. But if it makes you feel better, I won’t come here again.”

On the way out, you buy one of the overpriced books in the little shop by the entrance and then you drag me through various bookstores and buy some more books about art. They all look the same to me. The stores don’t have any large English sections and my Italian isn’t good enough yet to read literature, so I get bored eventually and wait for you in a café, watching the world go by. Some guy in tight jeans gives me the eye and I follow him to his hotel room.

Two hours later we meet by the car. I’ve ignored two phone calls from you – I was kind of busy – and you just give me a long silent look. You’re laden with bags, some with books, some with other stuff and on the way home you read one of the books while I drive. I’ve never known anyone who can read a whole book in an hour. It’s a little disconcerting.

You keep your word about staying away from the museum. The next day, when I get home from my run on the beach, you’ve set up a canvas but you haven’t started painting yet. Instead you’re mixing paints with weird ingredients, like milk and vegetables and some powders I can’t indentify.

And that’s what happens for a few days. You mix paints. Then you prepare canvases. They all look the same to me, with only barely noticeable color changes, until you’re finally satisfied. After that, you start painting. At first, it looks to me like you’re copying the painting from the museum. Why you might want to do that is beyond me. It’s neither particularly striking nor beautiful. Or even interesting. And as you progress, I see subtle differences. I would call it variations on a theme, the same painting but different.

“If you’re trying to copy it, you’re making a hash of it.”

“I’m not trying to copy it. This guy’s known to have made different paintings of the same scene. There are seven known works, but most experts believe he made twice as many.”

“And?”

“I wanna paint one from his descriptions.”

Okay. I’m rapidly losing interest and leave you to it. Nothing will entice me to spend much time indoors when I’m in Italy during a glorious summer. If you prefer to do that, that’s your problem.

I’ve started Italian lessons. Not official ones, but I’ve been going places to start up conversations with local people. Italians are very friendly and talkative and seem to have all the time in the world. I’m picking up the language very quickly. And picking up guys while I’m at it. What better way to pass the time? By now I can make all sorts of lascivious suggestions with barely an accent.

I’m keeping in contact with my friends at home by email, mainly with Michael and Lindsay and, to a lesser degree, with Vic. I’ve also contacted some people I know in advertising to stretch out my feelers for a new job, but the ones who are interested still want to hire me at a cut-price salary. I’m not ready for that yet. I still have some money and we’re living mainly on yours, at least you’re paying for the villa and the car. Fair enough, I’ve maxed out one credit card already but I have others. In the long run, I’ll have to find a job, though.

So I’ve started looking into advertising over here. My Italian won’t be good enough to give me any real edge for a long time, but London looks promising. I already know the language and they have some agencies there I wouldn’t mind working for. The truth is, I’m getting bored. I’m not made for a life of leisure. It’s fun for a while, but I couldn’t do it forever. And I’m just about fucked out as well. So I’m doing research. London is definitely an option.

“I’m thinking about getting a job in London.” We’re sitting on the veranda after our evening meal. It’s still warm enough for just a t-shirt and shorts and I feel languid, if a little restless.

“Oh.”

I turn to look at you and you look upset. “What? I can’t do this forever. I need money. And something to do.”

“I have money. I’m happy to share. And it’s my fault you don’t have a job, so it’s only fair that I pay for you.”

“Quite.” In general, we get on astoundingly well. Apart from the copious amounts of sex we’re having, we also never seem to run out of conversation. And I like being with you, even after weeks of it. But every now and then I remember what you did and remind myself not to get too complacent.

“But you don’t want me to pay for you, do you?”

“No, I don’t.” Not in the long run anyway. I have no talent for being a kept boy.

“So we go to London if that’s what you want.”

Sometimes I get overwhelmed with anger. It usually comes without warning. We can be talking quietly and then something reminds me of what happened and that I somehow find myself here in Italy with you despite that. The anger is probably more directed at myself than you because nobody forced me to come, but I always end up being furious with you. This conversation’s just brought home to me how my life has changed and although sometimes it does, this extended vacation doesn’t seem like much of a consolation at the moment. “What makes you think I want to take you with me? If I get a job, I might not want to jeopardize it by hanging out with a wanted criminal. You’ve already cost me one job.”

“I know that, Brian. And I’m sorry. I wish I could change the past. I really do.”

“Well, you can’t.” I slip into my shoes. “I’m going out. Don’t wait up.” As I go inside to change and grab my money and my keys, I can hear you mutter, “Do I ever?”

My resentment is easily cured with a couple of fucks with a guy I pick up in a bar. When I get home, the villa is dark, so I take a long walk along the beach. I love this way of life. It beats Pittsburgh by miles, but there are things I miss, people mainly, Mikey, Lindsay, Debbie, Vic, even Emmett sometimes. For now, I’m staying in touch with them by email and the occasional phone call and they seem keen to keep things going. They definitely correspond more than I do. I suppose that if I’d gone to New York, it wouldn’t have been much different. Sometimes, I miss Gus rather unexpectedly. I can’t communicate with him, so I miss him more than the others. But again, New York would have been the same.

I think it’s the fact that my life is so transient that’s getting to me. I want something permanent. A place that doesn’t feel like holiday home. A job that challenges me and gives me a regular income. Friends, whom I can trust not to fuck me over or disappear from one moment to the next. And that’s the crux of the matter really, isn’t it? That I don’t trust you and never will. That I can’t shift the resentment I have or this underlying anger. If we were here for a vacation and I’d have to go back home for work soon, I’d love it here.

It’s not going to last. You will disappear one day and God only knows what kind of a mess you’ll leave me in this time. You’re still waiting for Daphne to turn up and what will happen then? You won’t need me anymore for company and the two of you will probably go off on your next crime spree. I don’t believe for one minute that you’re done with that. For starters, you’re too young to live off your ill-gotten gains for the rest of your life. At least not at the rate you’re going through it at the moment.

I should just go home, get a job, start over. It won’t take me long to work my way up again. Only, I’m getting older and there are all these young guys coming up all the time. I could maybe start my own agency. It would have to be small to begin with, but as long as it keeps me afloat until it makes an impact, that’s okay and I know that Cynthia will definitely get on board as soon as it becomes feasible.

But somehow I can’t go home. I can’t leave. Just like I couldn’t stop you from invading my life. Or couldn’t report you to the cops. Or couldn’t stop myself from coming to Italy with you. Some days, I feel like tearing into you and making you bleed – metaphorically speaking, of course, because I’ve seen quite enough of your actual blood to last me a lifetime – but mostly I just want to be here. To keep an eye on you. And fuck you as much as I can. What the fuck is wrong with me? I keep telling myself every day that just one more day won’t make a difference.

The next morning, I wake up late because I found a bottle of whisky after my walk and emptied it on my own. But even hangovers aren’t as bad in the sunshine. I get myself coffee from the state-of-the-art coffeemaker you bought and wander into your studio in just my cotton pants. I’m brought up short in the doorway when I see that you have a visitor. That in itself is unusual – in fact, we never have visitors – but I also recognize him straight away. The bear from the museum. He looks at me nonchalantly but you look as if I caught you with your hand in the cookie jar.

“Am I interrupting anything?” I’m not jealous. I don’t do jealousy and besides, I really can’t imagine that you would ever fuck him. You have better standards than that. But I don’t want him here. There’s something about him that makes me uneasy. And then there’s the fact that he’s here in the first place when he’s supposedly just a guy whom you just happened upon in a dusty old museum and who has ‘the same interests’ as you. I’m still trying to work out what those are.

He mutters something to you in Italian, too low for me to catch, and scurries off with a large parcel in his hands.

“Did he buy one of your paintings? I didn’t know you were selling.”

“Yeah.” You’re not very eloquent this morning, or loquacious, and that in itself is worrying.

I wander further into the room. I haven’t been in here for a few days. Sometimes I do like to watch you paint because I love the intensity you put into it. I always imagine that in a different life you might have been an artist. You certainly have the talent. But all these religious scenes make my skin itch, like my mother might pop up suddenly. Now I can see that you’re still on the same theme, five paintings, all a little different and in various stages of completion.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“I told you, I’m trying out the old techniques. That guy just bought one.”

“What’s his name?”

“Huh?”

“The guy. What’s his name?”

“Uhm… I don’t know.”

I snort a humorless laugh. “So you meet this guy in a museum. You get talking. You maybe tell him you wanna try painting something similar. And then what? You give him your address in case he wants to buy one of your paintings? That he hasn’t seen. Nor does he know if you can even paint more than stickmen. Then he turns up one day to buy one and you never ask his name?”

You’re biting your thumb nail now, so I know I’m onto something. And it’s really not that hard to work out. “You’re running another scam, aren’t you? Not stealing this time. Something else… Forgery. Am I right?”

“Well, technically it’s not forgery. These paintings don’t exist. There’s just rumors that they do. I’m creating them from descriptions the painter left behind and Antonio sells them to rich but very stupid art collectors as a recent discovery.”

I’m not sure what shocks me more, that you’re running a con right under my nose or that it took me so long to work out that you’re up to something when I thought I was so vigilant. God, I really am such a fucking idiot.

“You told me you were done.”

“I said I was done stealing.”

“Semantics, Justin, and you know it.”

“I’m not hurting anyone. And I can’t just stop. This is what I do. I need the rush or something. And you said it yourself, that you can’t just do nothing. Neither can I. Never mind that my money won’t last forever.”

I’m dumbfounded. You’re not even apologizing, not that it would make any difference. Well, what did I expect? That you would change? That’s never going to happen. In fact, I don’t even want you to. Who am I to tell you what to do? On the whole I’m all for letting people make their own mistakes and learn their own lessons. But with you, one little mistake can cost you your freedom and I’m having a hard time sitting on the sidelines waiting for that to happen.

I don’t even think it’s about the money for you, at least not just about the money. It’s not that I can’t relate. Being good at my job was what I loved about it, being the best at what I did, showing others how it’s done, the money was just a pleasant and very welcome and deserved byproduct. If I were a con artist, I would probably feel the same way. And let’s face it, advertising is basically just conning people into things, legally so but still.

You will never stop. I know this. I just didn’t want to see it. And what’s really making this so hard for me to accept is that you’re lying to me the whole time. Not in so many words, perhaps, but in the spirit of things. You can’t be honest about what you do and what you’re planning because it’s illegal. You know I don’t approve.

I kind of thought that my presence here would stop you. Isn’t that what you said? That if I’d given you the slightest hint that we could be together, you would have stopped and tried. How much more do you need than me running off to Europe with you? If I’m honest I have to admit that it’s part of the reason I’m here. You need to stop. How else are you going to be safe? I must have been delusional to think that me being here with you would be enough. That I would be enough.

I walk out of your studio, ignoring you calling my name a few times and go for a long walk on the beach. Then I go into town. And when I pick up a guy an hour later, I take him home with me. You’ve disappeared somewhere, but you come back while he’s still there. In fact, you walk in on us right in the middle of our fuck. The guy doesn’t seem to mind you watching us, but when he’s finished, he scrambles off the bed and leaves silently.

You never move from your spot just inside the doorway, where you watched us finish our fuck and didn’t move when he squeezed past you. “I haven’t said anything about all the guys you’ve fucked since we got here, Brian, but this I can’t tolerate. I hated Ethan for doing this to me just the once, I don’t want to end up hating you.”

I snort a little and lean back against the headrest to light a cigarette. “We’re guys, Justin. And we’re queer. There’s no locks on our doors and we fuck who we want when we want.”

You nod. “Well, you certainly do. I would appreciate it if you didn’t bring guys into our home, never mind our bed.”

“And I would appreciate if you didn’t run illegal scams from ‘our home’. Never mind bringing the police down on us, which will happen eventually. Oh wait, I should say ‘bringing the police down on _me_ ’, shouldn’t I? Because I’m sure you’ll be long gone by then.” I blow smoke in the air and watch you rub your forehead with the tips of your fingers.

“I won’t run away, Brian. I want to be with you. But I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. Are there even any guys left in this country that you haven’t fucked yet?”

“It’s a big country, sunshine.”

You pause for a while, staring at the floor, before you take a deep breath and look at me. “I can’t make you trust me. And I sure as hell don’t blame you after what I did to you. I promise you I won’t run out on you again. But if you can’t find it in you to believe me, then I can’t see this working out.”

“Trust you?” I snort. “Not in a million years. But, hey, anything’s possible after that. Trust works both ways, Justin. As long as you do what you do behind my back, I’ve no reason to ever change my mind.”

“I thought you’d rather not know.”

“Well, you thought wrong. I’d like to keep informed so that I’m forewarned before the cops arrest me as an accessory.”

“You won’t get arrested.”

“I did last time.” Not quite true but close enough. At least it shuts you up for a while.

“I didn’t know that.” You look crushed.

I just shrug. I don’t like to think about those hours I spent at the police station, wondering if I would ever be allowed to leave again, so I didn’t tell you. Despite having to be tough all my life, I don’t think I’m quite tough enough for prison. A lot of my behavior is just projection and sheer ballsiness. I can’t imagine that’s gonna get me far in a place like that. So I’ll admit it, prison scares the fuck out of me. As does the idea of you in there.

“I’m sorry, Brian. You’re the last person I wanted to hurt…”

“You didn’t.”

You don’t look convinced but you don’t argue either. “If I promise… not to do anything anymore, can we try again?”

“Try what again?”

“This… us… being together…”

“How much more together would you like to be? We’re practically fused at the hips. What are you hoping for? Beach walks at sunset? Romantic candlelit dinners? Get real. We’re together because we want to be right now. Because we like fucking each other. If you’re looking for more, then you’ll be sadly disappointed. I don’t do relationships. Or boyfriends.”

“I know. You’ve always made that abundantly clear.”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is.”

“You’re right. There is no problem.” You try for sarcasm but it comes out somewhat defeated.

We last less than two weeks after that. We pretend that nothing’s changed but it has. You remain staunchly cheerful on the surface. Only, sometimes I catch you when your mask is slipping. You’re not happy, I can see that, so it’s only a matter of time until you’ll take off. Every time I’m out, even if it’s only for a short while, I expect you to be gone when I get back. And that’s despite the fact that you hardly go anywhere. I do. I pick up guys in town and I always take them back to the villa now, because nobody tells me what to do or not to do. You just go to the beach while they’re here. And you don’t say a word about it.

We fuck a lot. We’ve always done that, but we’re taking it to new heights. It’s hard and desperate most of the time and doesn’t seem to fill the void anymore. Gone are the soft touches and mellow conversations afterwards. Well, it suits me. I don’t go in for that lesbian shit anyway.

You don’t give any indication that you think anything is amiss, nor that you might be moving on. And since you don’t go out much, I assume you’re not doing anything behind my back either. But that doesn’t stop me from watching you like a hawk for signs of dishonesty. I can’t spot any. You really are that good at deception.

In the end, I get tired of it. I spent my whole childhood watching people so that I don’t get any nasty surprises. I’m not doing it when I have other choices. One day, I make my decision, book a ticket and email Michael. It’s time to leave.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**PART  NINE**

Having spent a summer in Italy, the Pittsburgh winter seems twice as damp and dreary as I remember it. Within a few days I was caught up with what my friends had been up to, which wasn’t much. It never is. Lindsay told me that her marital problems weren’t just about Mel’s difficult pregnancy but about some guy she fucked. Apparently, fucking a guy when you’re a lesbian is worse than fucking another woman. I can’t see why it would be, but was trying hard to stay out of it. When will these people ever learn that a fuck is just a fuck?

It was nice to see Gus again. I didn’t think I’d miss him but being away from him brought it home to me that maybe I’d like to take some small part in his life. More of an uncredited guest appearance than a main role because most kids get fucked up enough with two parents, I dread to think what three would do to him. So in the end, I had to tell Lindsay that her frequent visits – which I know were more about getting away from Mel than being with me – would have to be curtailed.

I’m too busy to entertain visitors – well, visitors who don’t come for a quick workout and then leave again. I’ve decided to start my own agency. For now, I’m working out of my loft because I don’t have any big clients yet. It’s incredibly frustrating to devise a campaign for a business with an entire PR budget of no more than five hundred dollars. Not quite what I’m used to or want to get used to. But I have to start somewhere and it brings in money. Although I’m not as short of that as I anticipated because my credit cards have been miraculously paid off.

I guess your guilty conscience got the better of you. I suspect that’s also the reason you stayed with me for so long. You did it with Ethan, too. It’s just who you are. I believe Daphne called it a hero complex. Always saving the world, aren’t you? When you’re not defrauding it of all its money, that is.

I had a triumphant return to Liberty Avenue. Things have gone back to normal there, as if Stockwell never happened. It’s a relief not to run into cops at every corner because I seem to have developed an allergy to their mere presence. Carl is the only one I can tolerate. He’s started the curious habit of leaving the room whenever the conversation turns to you. I suppose, he’s just covering his back. Nobody can expect him to divulge information he doesn’t have. Not that many people ask about you, mainly Debbie, and since I’m not very forthcoming, the questions soon dry up.

So I’m working hard and playing even harder and by the end of three months, it’s like I’ve never been away. It certainly _feels_ like I’ve never been away. Even my suntan has faded and the tanning bed just doesn’t give the same results.

I have a small group of clients, who keep me busy, because apart from the actual artwork, which I subcontract, I can’t delegate anything. But my heart isn’t in it. It’s probably too small-scale to grab my attention properly. It’ll get better when I find more interesting clients. At the moment, I often find myself daydreaming about sandy beaches and white villas when I should be working. Fuck, I miss the sunshine.

I only really go out to trick. The rest of the time is spent working. My friends have their own lives nowadays, which bore me to tears. Melanie had a girl and she, Michael and Linz have started a custody battle of all things. Do they really have to imitate the heteros in absolutely everything they do? Somehow I end up between the lines of Linz and Mikey even though I tried hard not to get involved.

Lindsay’s busy working and looking after Gus on her own and Michael… Michael has gone back to being sucked into the beautiful world of Stepford, like he was when he tried to fit in with David’s friends. He invited me to a dinner party once and his new friends talked about gardening and speed bumps. I’m glad I could liven things up with my little house warming present. Only, Mikey hasn’t really talked to me since then. Nowadays I see more of Emmett and Ted than I do of Michael.

So, on a grey and snowy afternoon at the end of January, I’m just working on one of my accounts, when there’s a knock on the door. I should really call the super about the broken lock downstairs but it doesn’t bother me enough to set aside the time to do that. The man’s always so hard to track down, undoubtedly by design.

When I roll back the door, I come face to face with two guys I recognize instantly. Contrary to what my friends believe, I recognize most people, whether I met them while I was tricking, working or being interrogated by the police. These two fall into the latter category.

“Officers,” I say as nonchalantly as possible.

“Mr. Kinney,” the younger one says. His name is Harris, if I remember rightly. “We were wondering if you could spare us a minute?”

“Should I call my lawyer?”

“That’s your prerogative,” says the older one – Morrison – after looking me up and down quickly, probably relieved that I’m dressed this time.

“But I’m sure it won’t be necessary,” Harris interjects. “This is more for your information than anything.”

I step back and let them in, but I don’t offer them a seat, never mind anything else. There’s no way I’m letting my guard down after what happened last time.

“So what’s this about?”

“We thought you might like to know that we’ve made an arrest in the case you were involved in last year. The theft of election funds.”

Yeah, I really needed that cleared up because I’ve been involved in so many criminal cases. To give myself some time, I walk over to my desk and light a cigarette. I’m not sure if I want to hear this. It’s got to be Daphne they’re talking about because she’s right here in Pittsburgh, isn’t she? At least, she was last time I heard, silly girl. Surely they haven’t found you all the way in Italy. Fuck, I really hope it’s not you. It _can’t_ be you.

“Ethan Gold was arrested two days ago.”

Ethan? I’m trying to keep a straight face because I want to grin widely at that. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

“Oh?” is all I come out with in the end. I allow myself a smile, because being happy about the arrest isn’t suspicious at all when I think about it. Not being happy would.

“Yes, he was arrested in San Diego.” They’re watching me closely now, but I’m used to keeping a poker face. They won’t get anything from me. “And he’s given us quite a bit of information. For example, the real name of his accomplice. But you already know all this, don’t you?”

“What makes you think that? This is the first I’ve heard of any arrest.” And now I’m wondering if I really should call my lawyer. Just here to _inform_ me my ass! They want something. The same thing they wanted last time, to implicate me. Only this time, I _am_ implicated. Fuck, I didn’t think about that, mainly because it looked like they would never catch anyone.

“But you knew that Justin Tramayne is really Justin Taylor, didn’t you?”

Well, if they know your real name, it’s only a short step to finding your father. If they haven’t already. And he has no reason not to tell them about my visit. “Yeah, I did.”

“So you withheld information,” Morrison states coldly.

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t know anything when you asked me. I only remembered some time after you released me that we met this guy once. So I tracked him down. It turned out that he was his father. But when I spoke to him, it was a dead end. He hasn’t seen his son in years. So there was no reason to tell you. I didn’t know I was supposed to do your work for you.”

Harris puts a calming hand on his partner’s arm and says pleasantly, “I understand. Nobody’s accusing you of anything. We just wanted to let you know that we’re making headways. I’m sure you’ll be relieved when this is all over and your name will be completely cleared.”

I don’t believe a word of it. “I’m trying to forget the whole thing.” And making a terrible job of it.

“I understand but if you can think of anything else…” He hands me his card. “Or if Taylor contacts you…”

I huff mirthlessly. “He won’t.”

“Well, if he does,” Morrison says pointedly. “This is us, _asking you_ for information, whether you have it now or get it in the future.” Looks like they’re not letting me get away with it a second time. It was a pretty weak argument to begin with.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

When I shut the door, I lean my forehead against it, breathing a sigh of relief, although I don’t imagine for one second that this is over. This is really going to bite me in the ass big time. I make one little mistake, just one little breaking of my own rules, and I’m not ever going to be free of it, one way or another. My only hope is that Ethan will keep his mouth shut about what happened in San Diego. Luckily, it’s in his best interest as well, since it would mean admitting that he shot you.

I’m too paranoid to do any of the things that come to mind. It’s probably over the top, but I’m worried that my phone may be monitored and I don’t want to leave any traces on my laptop by sending an email. So I nervously wait until the evening before I make my way to Woody’s just after opening time. Josh puts a beer on the bar for me and lets me borrow his cellphone, no questions asked.

Your number’s no longer in service and there’s no answer when I call Mrs. Chanders. So I call Alvarez instead and ask him to check urgently whether Daphne’s mother still lives in her old house. He gets back to me an hour later, on Josh’s phone, telling me that there’s no one home. Whether it’s permanent or temporary he couldn’t work out so quickly, especially since I warned him not to let himself get noticed.

I have to leave it at that. This is as far as I’m willing to go to appease my conscience. By the end of the night, I’m drunk enough not to care. You made your bed, it’s not my job to fuck you in it. That doesn’t stop me from dreaming about sex on the beach though.

 

 

 

Hangovers and dark Pittsburgh mornings are not my favorite combination, but I have a meeting at ten, so I have no choice but to get up and make myself presentable. Today I’m going to gatecrash Vance’s party with Lawrence Ramson. I’ve devised a brilliant new strategy for their new HIV drug which is unusual enough to get Ramson’s attention. I have no doubt that I can persuade him over to my side. Vance is going to have a fit, which is an added bonus. He asked me to come back once when he heard I was back in town. But it didn’t take me long to work out that he was just worried about what would happen if I opened my own agency. Well, today he’s going to find out.

Ramson is not quite convinced but he’s always been pleasantly open to new ideas and I’ve never sold him a bad one, so we arrange for a viewing with a test audience later on in the week. I’m confident that by the weekend, I’ll have my first big account under my belt. If I haven’t been arrested by then. It’s a relief to realize that while I was at Vangard, I managed not to wonder if you’ve been arrested yet for over an hour. Or if Daphne has. Can they prove that she was involved or at least knew about what you were doing? I suppose, with Ethan spilling the beans, they can. It amazes me that I even care whether she gets away or not. I thought I was done with the whole affair.

I say goodbye to Ramson outside the agency and I’m embarrassed to say that I take a good look around to see if I can spot anybody watching me, while I smoke. I must really be paranoid to think that the police are following me. I haven’t been able to shake that feeling since they came to the loft yesterday. But then I do see a familiar face and it nearly makes me drop my cigarette. I walk away quickly and duck into an alleyway, making sure that it has an exit at the other end, and wait.

Two minutes later, you come strolling up to me with that big smile that you have. My stomach’s doing somersaults. Must be from worry.

“Hey, Brian.”

“What the fuck, Justin? Are you insane? What are you doing here? In Pittsburgh? In the country even? You do remember that the cops are after you, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but they’ve been after me for years. How have you been?”

“Fuck niceties. I had the cops round the loft yesterday, asking for you. They have your name now.”

“I thought as much. Ethan got himself arrested, the stupid fuck. But I knew he would eventually. I’ve made plans. I’m just here to make sure Daph’s okay.” You tilt your head a little and try a more subdued smile. “And you.”

“Have you been following me?”

“Since yesterday, yeah. I had to make sure that there’s no cops on your tail. I don’t want to get you into any more trouble than I already have. Have they been badgering you?”

“Not much. But if Ethan tells them I was in San Diego, they will. Where is Daphne?”

“Chicago. She has an ex-boyfriend there. Or maybe they’re on again now. I can never work that one out. I don’t think they’re quite sure either. She took her mom with her.”

“And you couldn’t just warn her by phone? You had to come over here?”

You bite your bottom lip, which always has me carefully not thinking how adorable it is. And all your other mannerisms are there, which I remember all too well. A part of me wants to scoop you up and hold you close to protect you from those pesky cops, who have the gall to want to arrest you for your illegal activities, and part of me wants to throttle you. And there’s that other part that wants to fuck you right here behind the dumpster we’re using as cover. Even on this cold and damp day, you remind me of the summer. Sunshine indeed.

I’m not sure who makes the first move, but a few seconds later we’re making out like teenagers. When that isn’t enough any longer, I take your hand and pull you along to the road until we stumble across a small hotel. It’s not the kind of place that rents out rooms by the hour so I resign myself to book one for the night, but you just pull out a credit card and book in under ‘Jason Tucker’. You told me once that calling yourself Jason or Justin makes it easier to respond naturally when people address you and keeping your initials means that you never need to worry about anything you might own that’s monogrammed.

The room is basic but clean and I really don’t care. I have you pushed up against the wall as soon as the door lock engages. You’re kissing me desperately, letting out all those little sounds that you make that I love so much. They never fail to make me hard.

With both of us in a hurry to get to each other’s skin, the bed seems just too far away, so the first fuck is on the floor on the scratchy carpet, but neither one of us is concerned with minor details. After that, we make it to the bed, but we don’t stop kissing and touching and fucking, albeit at a slower pace now. We take our time looking and feeling and tasting. It’s been a long time since I didn’t compare the body I’m touching to someone else’s.

I had plenty of time to think since I got home. I tried not to but there’s only so much distraction alcohol, drugs and tricks can provide, especially when I have to be sober enough to run my own business during the day. And in the end, I had to ask myself two hard questions. One was why the fuck did I ever come home? I was bored with this last year, what made me think anything had changed? My work has lost much of its appeal. How can I get excited about boosting the income of Torso and Poppers, of all places? And my private life revolves around Babylon, where I may still be ruling the roost but I’m not stupid enough to think that it will last forever. Michael called me an over-the-hill club boy a little while ago. I’m nowhere near that but I will be eventually if I’m not careful. And all my friends seem to be trying to avoid that particular fate by being sickeningly settled and domestic. Obviously, that’s not an option either.

The second question I couldn’t avoid was why the fuck did I ever leave you? When I was in Italy, I felt different from the way I’ve felt at any other time in my life. It wasn’t entirely pleasant. I couldn’t shift the feeling that it would all blow up in my face at any moment. But what is more, I couldn’t stop being angry with you for making a fool of me in the first place and most likely do it again in the future. It felt like somehow you had won the game. Not just when I didn’t know what game you were playing but even more so now. Didn’t being with you after what you did mean that I had conceded and let you win? You suddenly seemed to have the upper hand in everything. I couldn’t live with that.

When I left you there, I told myself that I’d feel better away from you. I was convinced that, if I wouldn’t be reminded all the time, if I’d take control of my own life again instead of just drifting with you and if I wouldn’t have to worry about you being gone one day without warning any longer, the sickening feeling I had more or less constantly would disappear. And it did. But it was replaced with something far worse. You’re always with me. I have simply exchanged actually being with you continually in the physical sense with thinking about you all the time. Only now, I don’t have any of the benefits, just longing. And I suspect that will never change.

It’s just as well that the room is booked for the night because I don’t really engage my brain again until it’s dark. I’m a little hungry but not enough to bother about getting food. You, on the other hand, call for room service, which doesn’t exist, and then order a pizza from a nearby delivery place and some drinks. By the time they arrive, we’ve had a shower, together as always, and are lounging on the bed in hotel robes.

“I think I’m getting paranoid,” I finally admit. “I see cops everywhere.”

“Better than dead people.”

“Huh?”

“ _I see dead people._ The Sixth Sense? The movie?”

“You’re hilarious.”

You grin impishly. Like you used to in the beginning, when we were working together and nothing could dampen your spirit. Before everything went crazy. And I’m reminded of how you and I just clicked right from the outset. I never had that with anyone before. Not even with Mikey. With Mikey everything grew over time, at least on my side. With you I was comfortable from maybe not day one but definitely day two. I always had fun with you. You _are_ fun.

“You’re not paranoid,” you say quietly and card your fingers through my hair. “I did follow you yesterday and even if you didn’t see me, you probably sensed it. And quite frankly, I think you’re right to be worried.”

“Fuck, now I know I should be. You never admit that there’s anything to worry about.”

You chuckle. “What? You think I hop, skip and jump through life? I worry. All the time. I just don’t let it take over.”

I wish you could teach me that sometime. Because if I’m not in the middle of a drink, drug or fuck session, my thoughts go round and round in never-ending circles. Except now. Now I feel content. Right now I’m indestructible.

“Ethan’s gonna get himself a lawyer and when he does, he’ll start negotiating with the police. All he has to trade is information. As soon as he realizes that he can drop you in the shit by telling the police that you were in San Diego, with me, he’ll tell them. And then they’ll charge you with being an accessory after the fact.”

It’s not as if you’re telling me anything that hasn’t occurred to me before. I realized this last night, sometime after the fourth shot of JB. Borrowed time, that’s all you and I ever seem to have. In the beginning that suited me just fine, then I wouldn’t have minded spinning it out a little longer and now, that borrowed time doesn’t just mean losing you again but also my freedom. I wonder how long I’ll have, if it’s even safe to go back to the loft. Which reminds me…

“You can’t go back to Italy. I told Michael about it. He’s not gonna lie to the police.” We might not be talking at the moment but there’s no way Mikey would ever do anything to harm me. He would tell the police because he’ll hope that if you get arrested, they’ll lose interest in me somehow. And I wouldn’t want him to lie to them anyway. I want all my friends to stay nicely out of this mess and live their boring lives in peace. It’s what they want.

“I wasn’t planning on going back to Italy. That was just a stopgap to let things cool down. I have big plans.”

I really, _really_ don’t like the sound of that. “What? You’re planning to break into Fort Knox?”

You slap my chest playfully with the back of your hand. When I make a grab for it to stop you, you interlace our fingers, with your thumb rubbing the back of my hand absently. I can’t decide how I feel about this display, but I allow it because right now I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in months. You always have that effect on me. And it’s not as if you’ve never done this before. You’ve always had a habit of ignoring my misgivings about us.

“I told you I’m done with stealing.”

“That’s good to know. So what _are_ you planning?”

 

 

****** _JJJJJJ_ ******

 

 

When I saw those two guys come out of your building, I was worried. They had cops written all over them. Over the years I’ve developed a radar for people who will cause me trouble, so I knew straight away what they were. It was obvious that they hadn’t arrested you yet but with Ethan in custody, it’s only a matter of time. I didn’t want to cause you more problems than you already have, so I waited and followed you until I could be absolutely certain that you’re not under surveillance.

It’s good to see you. You’re always beautiful, but in your work suit – Armani spring collection, I believe – you look good enough to eat. And when you peel yourself out of it, I can barely breathe or maybe that’s because you’re fucking me, first on the floor and then on the bed.

This is going better than I’d hoped. I had serious doubts that you’d even talk to me, never mind respond to my advances. But then again, the sex was never a problem between us. Or rather the problem _was_ that it was never a problem. That it’s something neither one of us seems to be able to control. For a while I even persuaded myself that sex was all there was to it. Until Daphne set me straight.

I’ve made some stupid mistakes in my life – _can we say Ethan?_ – but what I did to you can only be classed as a monumental fuck-up. Why didn’t I listen to my own reservations before it was too late? I should have walked away, not implicated you in what I was doing. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop spending every last second with you. Every time I’m with you, I never want it to end, no matter the costs.

And now you’re in trouble and it’s all my fault. No wonder you left me in Italy without a goodbye. I came home one day and you were gone. Just like I knew you would. I tried not to, but I can’t help thinking about how we were together. I think about it all the time, every tiny little detail – it’s the one downside to an eidetic memory, trying to forget just doesn’t work. I remember how we talked for hours on end about nothing in particular. Of course, that was on the days you forgot who I am and what I did to you. When you remembered, things were awkward and silent or you would revel in hurting me. But I can’t blame you for that. How could you ever trust me again?

I suppose you don’t really have much choice now. It’s either me or throwing your lot in with the police and I don’t think they’ll be very forgiving after all this time. They’ll throw the book at you.

I have to make amends. I realize that. I tried in Italy, but then I couldn’t stop myself from doing those paintings. It was a challenge and I can’t resist a challenge. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what attracted me to you in the first place. Is there a greater challenge than you?

I should have kept a better eye on Ethan. He’s not as smart as Daphne and I are. Oh sure, his education is first-class, but he doesn’t know anything about living on his wits or staying off people’s radar. I was just so relieved to be finally rid of him that I really just wanted to forget he ever existed. And to be fair to him, he had the disadvantage of the police knowing his real name, so he was probably easier to trace.

Well, they have my name now but that doesn’t mean that they’ll catch me. I know how to disappear. I’ve always been a great believer of hiding in plain sight. Luckily, my needs are small. I didn’t pull this big con with Stockwell because I wanted to be rich. I did it because having money will make it easier to stay a few steps ahead of the cops. Since I left home, my motto has always been that you should never have more than two things that are important to you. Because when you have to go on the run, you can only take the things you can carry with you. And you only have two hands.

Up until now, I always had a hand free because as long as I could keep Daphne safe, everything else was unimportant. But now there’s you. You’re definitely something I want to keep hold of. Forever. The question is, will you let me? Even yesterday, I would have thought that the answer to that is an emphatic _no_ , but today you’re here with me and you’re letting me hold your hand, which you only allow maybe once for every ten times I try. It seems almost symbolic to me.

“The way I see it, you have two options. One, you take your solicitor and you make a statement to the police to come clean. You tell them everything you know about me. Everything about San Diego and Italy, everything I ever did while you were with me, every last word I ever said to you and then hope for the best.”

Your eyebrow comes up and you smirk. “ _Every_ word?”

I chuckle. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve always been in complete control. You don’t lose your nerve and you can think on your feet. I like that about you. The only time I’ve seen you panic was when I got shot. That’s okay. At the time I was panicking myself.

“Well, maybe you can leave out the times when I couldn’t say much more than ‘harder’ and ‘oh God, yes’. But I think you’ve got a good chance of getting away with it. You have no record and you’ve been an upstanding citizen until now. You won’t get a custodial sentence, I’m sure.”

“And do I also tell them about fucking you in this hotel room for hours?” You sound kind of self-deprecating, as if what we’ve been doing all afternoon is something you’re despising yourself for. I hope that’s about the fact that it will make your situation much worse if the police find out and not about how you feel about me.

“Maybe you could tell them we were just talking. That you were trying to keep me here until you had a chance to call them but I got away. I’ve set up a small sting. I could give you the details of that and when the police turn up to arrest me, I just magically get spooked and get away again. Because I’m that good.”

“You set up an operation just to make me look better?”

I shrug. “It’ll score you some points with the cops.”

“Hhm.” You seem to be pondering the idea. “What’s behind door number two?”

“Ah that’s something else I set up a while ago. And it’s as much about what I’m gonna do as it’s about what you’re gonna do.”

“And there you go again, speaking in riddles and not saying much at all.” You seem amused but I can hear the irritated undertone. I know you will never again let me get away with anything less than complete honesty and total disclosure. I can do that.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**PART  TEN**

Michael simply glowers at me when he answers the door and I half-expect him to tell me to fuck off. I really don’t understand what his problem is. I helped Lindsay find a solicitor because she has as much right to see JR as he and Mel have. It’s only fair. And it’ll be better for Gus to know his sister. But it was never anything _against_ Michael. I wasn’t taking any sides because I think their whole custody battle was just one huge ego trip for all of them. It was all ‘ _I know better what’s good for the kid_ ’ when none of them actually thought about said kid and, naturally, it’ll all blow over eventually. The only thing that really surprised me about it was that Ben didn’t stop Michael from going off the rails. I thought he was more level-headed than that.

But maybe that’s what keeps them together, that they’re on the same wavelength in most things. For starters, they both somehow manage to be friends with those unspeakably pretentious neighbors of theirs. Not so long ago, Michael would have made fun of people like that and joined me in throwing peanuts at them from the galleries. On the other hand, he does seem content. Maybe this really is the life he always craved.

“Have you come to apologize?”

I follow him into the kitchen, where he leans against the counter with his arms firmly crossed, not really looking at me. This whole house gives me the creeps with its hetero-normative aspirations. “What for?”

“For insulting our friends. And giving us a sling. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was for me and Ben?”

It seemed to me that Ben managed to take it a lot better than Mikey did. Then again, with his proclivities, Ben was probably no stranger to slings in his youth. Be that as it may, I don’t have the time or inclination to think about that right now. I fish out a cigarette from my pocket and debate how I should play this. It always saves time to take the easiest route, so I do. “Okay, I apologize. I behaved like an idiot. You behaved like an even bigger one. Let’s kiss and make up.”

He huffs angrily. “Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it? You disrespect my friends. You disrespect my choices in life. You disrespect _me_.”

“I disrespect your friends because they’re boring old farts, who have their heads so far up their own asses they can barely look over the speed bumps they’re campaigning for. And I disrespect your choices because they don’t ring true to me. If this is really the life you always wanted, then the person I’ve known for the last eighteen years was just a lie.” Sometimes I do ask myself if I ever really knew him or rather, if he ever dared show me who he really is.

“I’ve grown up, Brian. Which is something you'd know nothing about. You’re still fucking around every night. You’re turning into one of those geezers we always made fun of. It’s just sad.”

Now that’s a little harsh. I’m thirty-two, hardly a geezer. “How would you know? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“That’s because I have a life now.”

So what he and I shared wasn’t a life? I look at him and realize that I got it all wrong. This really is what he always wanted and he just never said it, because he knew full well that I would have mocked him mercilessly if he had. He was always trying to please me, which suited me just fine and which I used to my own advantage for years. His problem was never that he secretly wanted this, it was that he wanted it with me. And that was never on the cards and not just because I don’t feel that way about him, but also because I wouldn’t want this kind of life even if I did. I can’t understand why anyone would.

Debbie was right all along. I should have let him go a long time ago and he would have been much happier for it. He’s been my best friend for nearly two decades, despite the fact that we don’t have that much in common anymore. I do love him. I just wish I could have been a better friend and done what’s right for him because he deserves it, not because I’m being forced into it by circumstances.

He’s pouting and staring at the floor and I wish I had time to fix this properly. If it’s even fixable. I know he loves Ben and that he’s finally past the point where he’ll drop whomever he’s with and come running if I snap my fingers. For the longest time that thought scared the fuck out of me. Today it gives me nothing but comfort and the only worry I have is that Mikey might always resent me a little for not being what he needed me to be. I never understood until I met you how painful that can be.

There’s a long pause while I just watch him. I really think that the boredom his life represents must be excruciating. But I realize now that people make choices to suit them and I don’t have to get it, or like it, only accept it. Who am I to judge him when I’m the first to insist on not being judged myself? I’m just used to him always looking to me for guidance and listening to my advice. It’s always hard to break a pattern. But if he managed it somehow, then so I can. I take a deep breath and ask the only pertinent question. “Are you happy?”

“Of course, I’m happy…”

“No,” I stop his emerging rant. “Look at me, Mikey.” He looks up and however happy he may normally be, he isn’t so now. “Are you really happy with your life?”

It takes a while for him to soften. “Yeah. I’m happy. This is what I want. I know you don’t want this and I know you don’t understand it, but I’m happy with this life.”

“Then be happy, Mikey. Plant roses and build speed bumps and give dinner parties to your heart’s content. And don’t let anybody, not even me, ever tell you that you shouldn’t want this or can’t have it. If this is what you want, then I’m happy for you.”

He frowns a little. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Why, all of a sudden?”

Because I don’t have time to be an asshole any longer and it took me long enough to get my head out of my own ass as it is. I debate telling him the truth, but then think better of it, so I just shrug and tell him an easier truth. “We’ve been best friends for too long to let this shit come between us. Life’s too short.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling softly. “Yeah, it is. Do you want a drink or something?”

I smile back at him and wish I could stay, just hang out and talk, like old times. But I’ve done what I’ve come to do. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got plans.” Not that I would ever divulge those plans to him. I make my way to the front door and he follows me closely.

“Do you want get together tomorrow or Friday?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll give you a call.” I turn and pull him close, kissing him on the mouth, like I always used to. “Be happy, Mikey.” I resist the urge to hug him closer. I’m getting way too sentimental.

“I am,” he smiles, thinking this is still about our conversation. “I love you.”

“Me, too. Always have.”

“Always will.” He’s grinning now and I realize that however much he wanted to hold a grudge, in the end, he’s deliriously happy that he doesn’t have to any longer. He was always much too soft.

“But your neighbors are still boring old farts.”

Michael shoves me off the doorstep playfully. I grin at him and just for a moment I feel weird that he’s not the person I tell everything to any longer. But I dare say, he wouldn’t understand my choices any better than I do his and right now it would only complicate things, so I just say goodbye.

A few days ago, Debbie told me that Mikey and I are almost like brothers. I think she’s right but in a different sense from the way she meant it. Just like brothers we stuck together when we were younger, spending most of our time together and doing the same things. Then our paths diverged. Mikey's life is very different from mine and for a while that worried me. Now I know that it’s just one of those things that happens in families. People grow up and they do their own things but at the heart of it they will always be brothers. Doesn’t mean they have to do everything together still or even understand each other. Mikey will always be there for me and I for him. We don’t need to be together for that.

I walk down the road, not looking back once. You can never look back.

 

 

 

Half an hour later, Lindsay’s beaming at me when I turn up at her apartment. I know she’s unhappy on her own. She misses Melanie – fuck knows why – so any distraction is welcome. I’ve brought a small train set for Gus, which he watches me set up. Then I show him how to crash the trains.

“You’re so bad,” Lindsay chuckles indulgently.

“Let’s face it, he’s so little, he’d probably much rather chew on them anyway.”

“Don’t be silly. He loves it when you play with him.”

“Most guys do.”

She chuckles again and then tells me about the boiler in her old house, which apparently broke down. I’m only half listening. I’m too busy wondering if Gus would even remember that I’m his father if Lindsay didn’t say, ‘ _oh look there’s daddy_ ,’ to him every time we meet. And if it would really be such a great loss for him if he didn’t. I’m sure Melanie would be much better suited to provide a positive masculine influence in his life.

When Lindsay goes to start the dinner for her and Gus, I take a couple of pictures of him with my phone. Great kid that he is, he smiles conveniently for them. Then I pick him up and place him on my lap. “Don’t forget your old man, okay?” Gus beams an even bigger smile and holds out one of the trains to me. “No, you keep that, sonnyboy.” He pulls his hand back and solemnly starts to chew on the toy. He must be quite tired because normally, he doesn’t shut up, although it’s still a little hard for me to work out what he’s saying most of the time. Then he snuggles into me and I lean back a bit so he can get more comfortable, breathing in his scent.

By the time Lindsay comes back in, Gus is already half asleep. She lingers in the doorway, smiling fondly at the two of us like she always does.

“Are you gonna free me from this child, or what?” I grouse, but quietly, so as not to wake him.

“Just put him on the couch for now. He can have a little nap before dinner.”

Gus grumbles a little at being jostled but settles down soon enough when I lay him down and cover him with a blanket. I even kiss his forehead as a goodbye, ignoring Lindsay’s happy sigh.

“Do you want to eat with us?”

“No, I’m alright. I’ve got plans.”

“Do I want to know?”

I shake my head with a smile. “No, you really don’t.” I know that she certainly would, but I really don’t want to get into a discussion with her about it. I know exactly what she would say. Really, I know my friends so well that half the time I can predict their reactions so accurately it makes the actual conversations we have pretty tedious. Or maybe that’s just my excuse for chickening out.

“Here.” I hand her a check I prepared before I came here. It has nothing to do with our conversation but the broken boiler is suddenly a convenient excuse.

“Brian. You don’t have to. We’ll find the money for the boiler somehow. This is too much. You’re not earning that much yet.”

“Just take it, Linz. I know whatever’s left over, you’ll use for Gus, so it’s all good. I wouldn’t give it to you if I couldn’t afford it.”

“Okay. Thank you. It’s expensive, running two homes.”

“Then don’t. Go and sit the she-devil down and work things out. You know you want to. And so does she. This separation shit’s not doing the kids any good at all.”

She sighs, and fearing that she’ll launch into a long rant about her marital problems, like she has too many times before, I kiss her cheek. “Bye, Wendy.”

“Bye, Peter.” She hugs me in that sentimental way that she has. Since she split up with Melanie, she’s got more touchy-feely but for once I relish it. Then I make my way to my car, ignoring the fact that she’s lingering in the doorway.

When I had plans to go to New York, I always imagined myself just driving off without a second thought. Now I wonder if that would have been true. But that was long before I met you. You’ve turned my life upside down, no doubt about it. It wasn’t so much the practical changes of having no job and not being able to throw money at any and all problems, it was that I started to re-evaluate everything.

What appeared to be a sudden rift between me and everyone I know when I began working for Stockwell, was really just the natural progression of what had been going on in my life for a long time. It simply expedited the situation. And then you came along and filled the vacuum. The thing about vacuum is that it doesn’t actually suck everything in. That’s a common misconception. What really happens is that everything gets blown into the vacuum from around it. I didn’t suck you in. You burst into my life like a force of nature.

And then you were just there, spreading into every corner and bringing much needed oxygen with you. I'd felt suffocated for a long time, by Pittsburgh, by Vangard, and even by my friends, and suddenly I could breathe. I know now that New York would only have sustained me for so long. My life would have followed the same pattern and it would have been only a matter of time until I would have felt suffocated again. Only, then I'd have been much older and unable to ever get free again.

In a way you saved me from that. I may have resented you for what you did for a while but even the time we spent in Italy, which wasn’t exactly a bed of roses, helped me see things clearer. I just didn’t want to. It wasn’t until I was back in Pittsburgh that I realized how much had changed. How much I had changed. And however much I may miss some of my friends, and especially Gus, in the future, I am done here. Everything I want is out there, now more than ever.

 

 

 

**EPILOGUE**

When I step out of the Miami sun into the small gallery, I am greeted by a smile as bright as it is fake. “Good afternoon, sir. Can I be of any assistance?” Daphne says in her most professionally friendly voice.

I pick up one of the glossy catalogues and hand her the money, saying in a low voice, “Being a receptionist suits you. You should consider a career change.”

Her smile stays on as she retorts very quietly, “God, give me a bunch of sick people over this any day.” Then, a little louder, “Here’s your change, sir. Enjoy your visit.”

I wander around a little, subtly watching you talk to our newest project. You must be as charming as ever because the guy’s smiling and nodding enthusiastically. I’ve maneuvered myself into position in front of _the_ painting exactly at the same time as you arrive with Mr. Pendergrass at the one next to it. Ignoring both of you, I stare at this one for a bit, then do a pretend double take and pull out my cellphone, turning slightly away from Pendergrass and you. With her usual perfect timing, Daphne comes to tell you that you have an urgent phone call, while I dial.

“David?” I say to the Florida weather service forecasting glorious sunshine for the next few days. “I need to get hold of…” I peer at the price tag on the painting, “… three hundred thousand dollars.”

I pretend to wait for an answer – apparently the wind’s going to pick up slightly tomorrow – before I say, “Because I just spotted a genuine Mitchell in the gallery I’m at, that’s why.”

I sneak a look around and, as expected, Pendergrass is paying rapt attention while pretending to do no such thing. So I lower my voice conspiratorially because now I can be sure he’ll do his hardest to hear me no matter what. “No, not _that_ Mitchell, the other one, you moron. I don’t think the owner knows what he’s got. It’s been mislabeled. But you know me, I’m never wrong. It’s definitely an original. From her early period. It’s worth at least twice as much.”

I pause again. Then finish with a slightly hissed and annoyed, “Can’t you bring my credit card here? I don’t want to leave, in case someone beats me to it... Yeah, alright, I’ll come and get it.”

I close my phone and stalk towards the entrance, where you’re leaning a little over the slightly elevated front of the reception desk to speak into the phone. Your ass looks as inviting as ever.

“Have a nice day,” Daphne says cheerfully.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” I tell her in a harassed manner.

“Very good, sir. We look forward to your return.”

As I walk down the sidewalk past the glass front, I can see Pendergrass staring at the painting, which took you a mere six days to finish to perfection. Your eyes meet mine and you grin a little, which is safe enough because you have your back to him. Then you put down the phone and hurry back to your customer.

I slowly make my way back to the hotel, where the concierge hands me my key with an inviting smile. He’s hot enough, I suppose, but I have other things on my mind. Recently, there are a lot of other things on my mind. Daphne calls me as I’m getting out of the elevator.

“No need to come back. He’s buying it. In fact, he wants us to crate it up and ship it to him this afternoon.”

“He probably doesn’t want to get into a bidding war with me. Alright then, tell Justin I’ll get the flight sorted out and I’ll see you next month.”

“Will do. Later, hot shot.”

“Bye, Daphne.”

After making the arrangements for our flight, I decide that I have enough time for a good workout in the gym. The equipment is on par with the hotel’s four star rating and I’m pleasantly tired by the time I make my way across the hotel lobby back to our room. You shouldn’t be much longer now and I’m contemplating if I should wait with the shower until you arrive.

“Brian?”

I hesitate for just a moment. Should I just carry on and pretend I didn’t hear? But in the long run, it’s probably best not to draw any attention, so I turn and look at an older man with distinguished grey hair and an impeccable suit. My memory supplies a name with no more than a few seconds delay. Smiling broadly, I step closer and shake hands with the guy.

“Mr. Radcliffe, nice to see you again.”

“Oh please, I thought we decided that you call me Phil. How are you, Brian?”

I'd be a lot better if he didn’t use my name so much. It’s not a good idea in the lobby of a hotel where I’m booked in under ‘Brandon Kelly’ and the concierge likes to pay me a lot of attention. But we’re all the way over by the elevators, so it’s unlikely that he can hear us.

Radcliffe was a client of mine in the good old days, when the agency was still Ryder’s. He’s a nice enough guy, who owns a footwear company catering to a very exclusive market. I remember having dinner with him and his equally pleasant wife once.

“I’m good. How are you, Phil?”

“Good, good. Small world, I was going to give you a call this month anyway. Do you still work for Ryder’s… or… it’s called Vangard now, I think, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is, but I haven’t worked there for a while. I’m a private consultant now.”

“Are you? In that case, would you like to have a drink at the bar? There’s some business I’d like to discuss.”

Fuck. That’s really not such a good idea. The longer we’re together, the more of a risk there is for something to go wrong. There’s always the chance of the hotel staff calling me by my assumed name or Radcliffe using my real one in their presence. On top of that, when I look past his shoulder, I just spot you entering the hotel. You’ve taken off your suit jacket and your tie and are making a beeline for the reception to get your key.

“I don’t think I’m dressed appropriately for anywhere in the hotel and I would dearly like a shower.” I wipe my neck with the towel I’ve draped over my shoulder to illustrate the point. “Maybe another time?”

“How about later on this evening? We could have dinner. Felicity would love to see you again.”

I try to look suitably apologetic. “I have a flight later on tonight. Sorry. But let me give you my number. Or you can give me your card and I’ll call you next week.” I watch you turn around and see me but your face doesn’t show any sign of recognition. I’m always amazed at how good you are at this game. It’s second nature to you. You amble over to the tables with the newspapers and take a seat in one of the armchairs. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you’re not even aware that I’m here, never mind watching me closely for any sign of trouble.

Radcliffe hands me one of his cards. “Write your number on the back. I really need some new strategies for the new campaign and the agency I’m with is boring as hell.”

“You should never have left Ryder’s while I was still working there.” I give it just the right amount of teasing and smugness. “But I’m sure I can help you.” I write down my old Pittsburgh number, which is still in service because Emmett is now living at the loft and making good use of the amount of guys that call there.

He hands over another one of his cards for me to keep and my casual attire gives me a good excuse for not returning the favor. I don’t actually have any business cards anymore, at least none under my real name. After a little more small talk and the promise of a phone conversation that’ll never happen, we shake hands and he makes his way out of the hotel. By the time the elevator arrives, you’ve strolled over to get in with me.

“Problems?”

I shake my head. “Old client. Wants me to devise a new campaign for him.”

You’re quiet for a long while until I finally look at you. “What?”

“Do you miss it?”

“Advertising?” I chuckle. “Hardly. Why would I, when I can have so much fun with this?”

Your smile is soft. “You’re having fun still? Really?”

We’ve been over this a few times. No matter how many times I talk about no apologies and no regrets, there will always be that part of you that feels guilty about what you did. I can’t see why, because we make more money than I ever did before and I’ve travelled more in the last year and a half than I did in the whole of my previous life. We own properties in three different countries but live mainly on our estate near Ensenada, where I have copious leisure time to enjoy the three hundred days of sunshine a year. The neighbors think I’m a very successful PR consultant, named Bryson Kennedy, and you’re my PA.

But what’s more important is that I never had so much fun in my life. For several weeks after we left Pittsburgh, you went about setting up some kind of underground network online, which isn’t so much clandestine as untraceable. Ostensibly it’s a sounding board for injustices which are beyond the long arm of the law because they fall into legal loopholes. You trawl through these every day and pick the ones that either anger you the most or have the best chance of being remedied. Then we devise a plan. Only, while you were so busy networking, the planning mostly fell to me.

It’s lucrative. Although our main aim is to give money back to the victims, we usually manage to make a substantial profit. But the fun is in the act. People who use the law to their fullest advantage or simply cheat the unsuspecting usually have a high threshold of wariness. It’s quite a challenge to con a con man.

Take Pendergrass for example. He’s a professional fundraiser who advises charities on how to maximize their profits. He also dabbles in art in his spare time. Three months ago he 'helped' raise funds for the Liberty House in Pittsburgh. There was a bike ride from Toronto back to Pitts which was very successful. Unfortunately it turned out that Mr. Pendergrass takes a rather large cut for his efforts. Debbie was spitting with anger when she told me that they had a mere pittance left after they had to pay his fee. You decided that we should help restore their funds.

Three weeks ago you met Pendergrass ‘accidentally’ at a party. You got talking about art and I have no doubt that by the end of the evening he felt like he’d known you for years. Everybody always does. Meanwhile I scoped out some suitable galleries – quiet, not too well known and small enough to have very few staff. But most of all, they should be looking for a receptionist.

The rest was simply about timing. You’ve perfected your forgery skills, so the painting was always going to be convincing. The owner of the gallery, who spends every Thursday afternoon across town with his mistress, is not to know that on those afternoons you pose as the gallery manager without a clue. All you had to do was make sure that Pendergrass would pick a Thursday for his visit. Then it was just a quick exchange of the exhibited painting for the one you painted and me planting the idea in Pendergrass’ head that if he was quick enough, he could get an expensive original for a very low price. His greed did the rest. The trick is to not give people a chance to think for too long or check out the facts.

It’s debatable how illegal today’s undertaking really was. After all, you never actually said that the painting was an original, in fact the whole point was that you gave the impression that you didn’t think so. If Pendergrass decides to come back once he realizes that he was duped, the gallery owner will have an alibi and the only suspicious person will be his receptionist, a young woman called Deidre Chapman. By that time Daphne will be long back in Chicago and we’ll be sunning our asses on the Mexican coast. It was one of the easiest jobs we ever did.

Most of them are a lot more intricate and require longer planning or a longer execution. But we have time and patience. Well, I have. You seem to be in a hurry to help as many people as you can. Nothing we do ever seems to be enough for you to make the amends you’re so intent on. And if we had the time, we could do ten times as much because we’re inundated with cases. I don’t consider it stealing. You promised me you were done with that. What we’re doing is re-appropriating funds to their rightful owners. The secret is in the labeling. I should know, I used to be an advertising genius.

The agreement we have is that you leave the final decision to me. My main goal is always to avoid violence in any shape or form. Any case with even a hint of a possibility of any of that is left to the police. You getting shot once is definitely enough for me, thank you very much. You promised me faithfully that there would never be another gun involved in our dealings, not even as a prop. We’re what Daphne called ‘strictly white collar’ and to be honest I’m the most comfortable and therefore the most effective in that kind of environment anyway.

I plant a kiss on your cheek before the doors of the elevator open. Sometimes a wordless gesture convinces you better than any words could. It should go a long way to reassure you that I’ve no doubts about preferring this life to my old one. “How did it go?”

“Pendergrass thinks I’m a hapless gallery owner who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. He bought the painting. Electronic transfer. That guy I hired this morning delivered the ‘original’ Mitchell to his home an hour later. And Daph handed in her notice. I dropped her off at the station. Everything worked like clockwork. When’s the flight?”

“Seven, tomorrow morning.”

I let us into our room and find myself pressed against the door within seconds. You’re kissing me hungrily and rubbing your hard cock against my thigh, while your hands insinuate themselves under my waistband. I love how turned on you get after a job. And I must say I feel the same way. The rush I get from seeing it all come together after weeks of planning is better than any I ever got from winning even the biggest accounts. It’s probably the risk involved in what we do that makes it so exciting.

“Now fuck me so I can get rid of this adrenaline.”

I’m only too happy to oblige. After all, doing this – or anything else – with you is the single most important factor in how much I enjoy my new way of life. With you I finally got my more, bigger, brighter. I’m flying higher than I ever thought possible.

 

 

****** _JJJJJJ_ ******

 

 

“Don’t ogle my ass,” you chuckle as you walk in front of me, away from the small office that looks more like a converted cloakroom.

I move closer until I’m practically pressed against your back, my hands on your hips. “You love it when I ogle any part of your _beauuuutiful_ body.”

Stopping for a few moments, you lean back into me and your head turns until your cheek strokes against mine while I’m resting my chin on your shoulder. It’s only for a moment but I love these little touches you give me on the oddest occasions. That never gets old. “You might not want to distract me when we’re in the air,” you smirk.

Then you walk out of the hangar onto the airfield, putting on your aviator sunglasses against the bright sunlight. God, you’re hot! The sunglasses and those jeans and the body-formed t-shirt you’re wearing – I hate that I never get to join the mile high club. It’s not fair.

Our _Diamond Star_ is sitting on the edge of the field, fully fueled and ready to fly. Officially the plane belongs to a small airline in Southern California and is available for private charter. In reality the airline belongs to us and we’re the only clients, albeit under various assumed names. Everything we do is untraceable. It’s time-consuming but one of the most enjoyable parts of my job and I’m _very_ good at it.

It took you several months of studying and taking lessons to get your pilot’s license. It’s one area where forged papers won’t do any good. Nobody in their right mind would go up into the air without the proper training. But now it’s like you’ve never done anything else. You fly like you do everything else, expertly and with complete dedication. Still, you’re right about not distracting you in the air, although I’ve managed to give you the equivalent of road head once. Gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘airhead’.

“So where are we stopping over?” I ask after you finished the pre-flight checks. From here the flight home would take too long for one day, so we usually take a break halfway there, before landing in Southern California. We never cross the border in the air – too much bureaucracy involved, someone might decide to look at our papers too closely. We usually go home by boat from San Diego. It’s not far to our estate south of Ensenada.

“How does Pittsburgh sound?”

“What? Are you serious?”

You grin at me and as reassuring as your confidence is, I always get edgy when we get too close to our former home. In general, travelling all over the States is pretty safe, provided we use aliases and don’t fly with any commercial airlines. As long as we stay in US airspace and away from any strategic areas, nobody pays much attention to our flight plans. But Pittsburgh – though definitely not strategic _anything –_ is a whole different ball game.

I agree with you that we’re hardly on America’s Most Wanted list. We’re small time con men, who defrauded a second-rate, aspiring politician of all his money – well, I did. The fact that Stockwell got indicted, even though he got away with a laughable sentence, makes us even less of a priority. Nobody wants to show too much allegiance to a crooked cop by putting a lot of effort into pursuing us. But in Pittsburgh there are still some cops who did well under Stockwell’s regime and are holding a grudge against us for putting an end to it. Never mind that there the chances of anyone recognizing us on sight are highest. After all, my father and your mother and sister still live there and there must be hundreds of guys who know you rather intimately.

When Ethan started talking to the police to save his neck, he took great pains to put all the blame squarely on my shoulders, where it admittedly belonged, but also on Daphne, who was no more guilty than he was, and… on you. Without you there to defend yourself, he made it sound as if you were in on it from the beginning. I hated him for that. I could forgive him more easily for shooting me than for telling lies about you to get his revenge.

He never even went to prison. He pleaded guilty to being an accessory and then his father decided that he didn’t want a scandal involving his only son and sent his best lawyer. Ethan got away with a gazillion hours of community service. I saw him a couple of months ago in the society section of one of the national papers. He was representing his father at some gala or other – with his girlfriend by his side. After that I felt that he’s just too pathetic to spare any more thought on.

But because of him there’s been a warrant out for your arrest for the past eighteen months, solely on the grounds that you’re wanted for questioning. According to Carl, nobody in the police department quite believed Ethan because they’d effectively eliminated you from their inquiries already. But still, if they find you, they’ll take you in. Which is something I’ve promised myself will never happen. I’ll turn myself in and prove somehow that you’re innocent before I let them arrest you.

However much visiting Pittsburgh might increase the danger of that, it’s also the place that holds anyone who’s dear to you, other than Daphne and myself. After a lot of queening out, your friends finally calmed down enough to keep in touch. We’ve seen Michael and Ben, and Lindsay and Gus, and even Debbie on a few occasions, always abroad, usually in the Caymans, where they can have a nice all-expenses-paid vacation into the bargain. We never invite anyone to our home because you don’t want to put them in a position where the information they have about us could get them into trouble. Needless to say, that Carl and Melanie always pretend to have no idea that their loved ones go anywhere but on a nice relaxing vacation.

I have a lot of regrets. You usually laugh when I voice them and tell me that the life I wish you could still lead was boring as fuck and you much prefer being a modern day Robin Hood. Whenever I mention how sad it is that you don’t see much of Gus, you tell me that if you’d gone to New York, you would have seen even less of him because your workload would have been horrendous and you’d probably have lost yourself in the club scene there. And eventually would have got just as bored with it there as you had in Pittsburgh. I hope I’m not reading too much into the fact that you then usually kiss me and fuck me right after saying, “This is much better.” The look you give me certainly seems like a declaration of love to me.

“Lindsay needs to go to her conference early and she can’t fly Gus out, so she asked us to come and get him.” I watch you as you pull us up a little higher into the air. I never tire of watching you do anything but flying might just be my favorite. It’s so obvious how much you love it. Although I reckon your smile at the moment has as much to do with what you’re doing as it has with where we’re going and who’s coming back with us for a visit.

Gus is the only one who’s ever been to our home. You reckon we can get away with it for another year or two before he’s too old. At the moment, there’s no risk involved. Even if somehow the police found out that he’s been with his father, he’s too young to tell them anything of real value. What could he possibly say? _We went on a plane and a boat and Daddy lives in a big house by the beach and everyone speaks funny?_ That’s hardly going to lead anyone to us. But as he gets older, we’ll have to meet somewhere else. Neither one of us wants Gus to have to tell lies.

“So, we’re having him an extra three days?” I can’t help but smile.

You nod, pretending it’s no big deal to you.

That’s definitely worth a visit to the Pitts. Having Gus around is always a lot of fun. He’s a bit of a handful but I love you and him together. You’re always doing stuff, swimming, snorkeling, camping. I didn’t think you were the outdoor type, beyond topping up your tan and doing laps in our pool to keep in shape. But when you’re with Gus, you turn into Action Man. You told me you can’t wait for when he’s old enough to go out on the speed boat and water skiing.  

It’s strange how things turn out sometimes. I’ve always been good at predicting. I can usually tell with accuracy how situations will play out in any given circumstances. Half our schemes rely on that talent. And yet people still surprise me sometimes. Like Mrs. Chanders, for example. I was a little nervous about meeting her again, but when Paul and Daphne got married last year, I could no longer avoid it. Rather than admonishing me for persuading her daughter to run away when she was barely fourteen, she thanked me for looking out for her and keeping her safe.

Of course, when it comes to you I’ve been off the mark more than once. But that was only in the beginning. Over time, I got to know you and what is more, I let _you_ know _me_. That’s something I only ever allowed Daphne before. Nowadays I don’t hide anything from you anymore, not even my emotions.

We work well together. You have a flair for devising intricate and astounding strategies and have the confidence and demeanor to carry them out successfully. I’ve been so busy with setting up a system, which is safe but makes it easier for us to find our clients – or rather makes it easier for them to find us – that a lot of the planning for our actual targets falls to you. We’re both happy with that.

I’d like to do more. I’m still making amends. But you keep me from taking on too much and you quite rightly pointed out once that by now, we’ve probably helped more people than I ever harmed in any way. But I’m not like you. I can’t just let bygones be bygones and even though I’ve accepted the things I cannot change, that doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty. Most of all for what I did to you.

How can I accept that I’ve harmed and hurt the person I love most and then just move on? That’ll be with me to the end of my days. It doesn’t help that you won’t even let me apologize. I do owe you an apology. For quite a while, even after we left Pittsburgh together, you remained a little angry and very wary. I could understand that. Apologies are just words. I want to make it up to you instead. Over time, you’ve completely forgiven me and I don’t deserve that. I’d like to earn it.

Sometimes I get the impression that you still expect me to disappear at any moment. Then again there are occasions when you show me your complete trust without any hesitation. I think it’s because you want to. It’s a conscious decision on your part. In our line of work it’s essential to trust your partner implicitly and to break that trust has more consequences than having your heart broken. I trust you with my life, because you’ve never broken your word and you’ve never let me down. It’s who you are.

I know that you love me. You don’t have to say it. Talking about how you feel isn’t your strong point but, as the saying goes, truth is written in white and can be read between the lines. That’s you in a nutshell. You left your whole life behind and started a new one with me. How much louder could you possibly proclaim your love for me? And it is there in every look and every touch.

I understand that occasionally you have doubts, given how we met. However, I honestly believe that you’d have those issues under any circumstances. That’s also who you are. Trust isn’t easy for you. But I intend to prove to you that I’m worth it. Eventually I will. And I also intend to prove to you that _you_ are worth it because I know that you can’t quite believe how much I love you. I will spend the rest of my life making you believe it. Whether I succeed next month, next year or next decade doesn’t matter because we’re both planning on sticking around.

It’s too noisy in the cockpit to have a conversation, so I just place my hand on your thigh as we’re cruising north. You smirk and raise an eyebrow at the gesture, willfully interpreting it as sexual rather than affectionate. I smile and look out the window to watch the clouds. About thirty seconds later your hand folds gently over mine.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


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